


O shining light and enfolding dark

by hapax (hapaxnym)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: "God give me a choice", 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), AU: Reverse Omens, Angst, Avian!Crowley, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Depressed, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical Alcohol Consumption, Changing Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Is Ten Gallons of Pining in a Half-Pint Carton, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bitter, Crowley is Crowlith (until he's not), Did I Mention Angst?, Footnotes, Free Will, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Happy Ending (eventually), Heaven is Dark & Cold & Below, Hell is Light & Hot & Above, Just Roll With It, Kind of a Crapsack World All Around, M/M, Not Like That, Not like that either, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining, Well Not Really Oblivious But He's Got Issues Okay?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 53,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23179531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapaxnym/pseuds/hapax
Summary: Crowlith blinked. “Didn’t you have a sword of ice?” he asked.An angel and a demon meet on the walls of a garden.  A very familiar story ... until it isn't.After humanity is exiled from Eden into a world that isn't quite ready for them, the Almighty gives Aziraphale an additional Name and a new assignment.  But his mission is more difficult than he expected - and the only one who seems to notice is his embittered hereditary adversary.This starts out slow, but it turns quite bleak before the (eventual) happy ending.  Mind the tags, and be good to yourself.  UPDATE:  Now COMPLETE, and with happy ending achieved!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 85
Kudos: 81





	1. Ye angels and all powers

**Author's Note:**

> This started as an exercise in world-building; but it's Good Omens, so pretty soon it started going off the rails and getting weird.
> 
> Work and chapter titles from _Benedicite, omnia opera Domini_ , also called _The Song of Creation_ or _Song of the Three Holy Youths_.
> 
> Currently plotted at about 12 chapters, but that's likely to change. Will update at least weekly.
> 
> Much gratitude to my generous (but stern!) beta, Emma Peelfan, who strove mightily to restrain my tendencies towards prolixity and over-punctuation. All such faults are the consequence of my ignoring her good advice.

_“Darkness isn’t the absence of light; it’s the presence of ink, the stuff from which letters and words and stories are made.” -- Jeff Sharlett_

*~oOo~*

“Well, that went down like a bubble of marsh gas.” Crowlith stooped to the rampart as if diving at prey, but chose instead to land gracefully beside the angel. He had already earned more than enough points with Hell today; and if he were truthful1 , he was feeling a little sick about the whole thing.

The angel – Eve had identified him as ‘The Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate’, and they had shared a giggle over the pomposity of Heavenly titles – startled, and turned worried eyes to the demon. “I beg your pardon?”

Crowlith had a poor opinion of angels in general, but Aziraphale must have been intensely preoccupied with whatever he was watching out there in the desert waste to allow an adversary to sneak up on him so easily.2 Not that Aziraphale seemed like the smite-y sort, in general, but you never knew.

“I said, _that_ went down like a bubble of marsh gas.” Crowlith spread his bone-colored wings and allowed himself to morph from man-sized raptor to a man-sized man-shape. He maintained the wings and the pallid coloring of all Hell’s denizens, echoing the glare of the merciless sun, now sinking low over the horizon. His robes were likewise bleached white; the only spot of color was the hair tumbling past his shoulders, burning gold and coral and scarlet like the darkening sky, and the round amber eyes of a bird of prey. 

Aziraphale, in contrast, displayed all the comforting dusky hues of Paradise: skin the rich dark brown of Eden’s fertile soil, short curls the soft storm-grey of the mist that rose from Below, eyes echoing all the secret umbers and hazels and blues of the Garden behind them. Even his robes were the deep twilight of the evening fast approaching and his wings … his _wings_ …

 _Oh, help me, Someone_ , Crowlith found himself thinking against his will. The angel’s wings were the purest, clearest night-black the demon had ever seen. It wasn’t that imitation of black that you would see looking up from Earth, no, but the true black of Her womb, the black of the endless void that had been Crowlith’s workbench, his _playground_ , in the not-Time Before, before the Rise. Amidst all those sleek onyx feathers he could detect the ethereal gleam of a thousand thousand _eyes_ , all glinting like the stars that the angel-who-would-become-Crowlith had scattered, stirred into swirling rivers of galaxies, and all those eyes were looking _at Crowlith_ , and he couldn’t bear it, to be seen, to be _known_ , he …

The demon affected a careless laugh. “A ridiculous fuss over a little snack, if you ask me.” _Look away, look_ away _from me._ “Over-react, much? Not that your lot doesn’t have a history of it.”

Aziraphale harrumphed, and _finally_ turned his gaze away. “That’s not it, and you know it … Crowlith, was it? It isn’t what they _did_ ; it’s that they were told not to do it.” He frowned thoughtfully. “At least… not _yet_ , I don’t think.”

“… Yet?”

“Oh. Ah. Er. Of course this isn’t _official_ , mind you, I certainly am not in the habit of … spilling Heavenly _secrets_ , but I rather get the impression, that, well … “ Aziraphale looked at his hands, as if he was surprised to see them nervously twisting. “Well, that the Almighty hadn’t, er, quite _finished_ with the Earth. Not completely … _ready for guests_ , as it were.”

“What? You think that the problem was that the humans _spoiled the surprise_?” Crowlith scoffed.

“I don’t know! I’m not consulted on policy! I’m just a Principality, not … All that I was told was ‘Guard this gate, don’t let anyone through’, they didn’t say anything about _down_ , and then there _you_ were, and next thing I know I’m shooing those poor dears out … out into that _dreadful_ emptiness, and locking the doors behind them.” His voice was filled with gentle reproach. “I know that it’s your nature, Crowlith, but it really wasn’t … very _kind_ , to Tempt them so.”

“M not _kind_. S’not my _fault_ ,” Crowlith mumbled, gazing at the talons on his toes. “All they said was ‘ _get down there and make some trouble_ ’, didn’t think it would be such a bloody _Thing_ , all right?” He started to get angry. “What’s _wrong_ with ‘Knowing Good and Evil’ anyways, yeah? You’d think it’d be the sort of thing She’d _like_! Keep them a far sight safer from _my_ lot, anyways, not a reason to kick them out of the only … _nice_ ” he snarled the word “bit on this whole blasted planet!”

Aziraphale hummed. “I’m sorry.”

Crowlith’s jaw dropped. “Don’t you _apologize_ to me, you daft angel! I’m a bloody _demon_!“

“Of course you are, I can _see_ that, but … Well, I’m _worried_ about them. I mean, you must understand, that I am somewhat _concerned_ that perhaps I … well. I know that I am not the _best_ angel. But that’s no reason to take it out on _you_.” He smiled – actually _smiled_! – at Crowlith. “Don’t be troubled, my dear. Things do look a little ...” he paused, seeming to search for the right word, “ _dire_ right now, but … well, it’s _ineffable,_ isn’t it? The one thing that I … that we _do_ know is that the Almighty has a Plan, and that it is, everything surely _must_ be going to be all right in the end!” 

Crowlith blinked. Did this mad Principality actually think that a demon would believe this? Find it _comforting_? “Didn’t you have a sword of ice?” he asked3 , abruptly changing the subject.

The angel looked away and muttered something.

“You did, didn’t you?” Crowlith pursued, sensing weakness. “Felt it earlier, you know. Freezing like _anything_. Lost it already, have you?”

“I gave it away!” Aziraphale shouted.

“You _wot_?”

“You don’t understand!” Aziraphale wrung his hands in distress. “It’s going to be day soon, and it’s so beastly _hot_ out there, no shade, no _water_ , not for miles and miles and miles, and they’ve never experienced anything _like_ that, and, and, she’s … _expecting_ , and I thought, I thought, well, that it might make things a little more _bearable_ , that’s all!”

“All right, all right, calm down, Aziraphale.” Really, could any being be more ridiculous? Crowlith began to wonder why all his infernal siblings were so afraid of the Heavenly Host.4 “Water, you say? From a sword? _Really_? How’s that _work_ , anyhow? Can they _drink_ it?”

“Oh, dear… It’s a whole … _melt_ -y thing-y, except entirely _different_. Holy Water, of course, that’s what it supplies, but …” Aziraphale looked anxious. “I’m sure it will be quite all right for _them_ to drink it. I mean, they’re only cast out of Eden, but they were never angels, they’re … not _Risen_ , I don’t think. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“I’ve been worrying so. For hours and hours. I mean, it was given to _me_. I’m _responsible_ for it.” Aziraphale turned to face Crowlith fully, extending _those wings_ again. “Do you think that I made a mistake?”

 _Ngk. Put those things_ away, _angel. How is a demon supposed to function_? “Eh. I’m sure it will all be fine.” He tore his gaze away. “S like you said before. It’s all in the Plan, innit? ‘S bloody _ineffable._ _Got_ to be all right.”

“Oh, _thank you_ , Crowlith. I do mean it. I have been ever so concerned.” The angel smiled _again_ , like the demon had given him a fucking _gift_ , and wasn’t that just a splash of cold water sizzling on the furnace that was Crowlith’s essence. “And I am sure that your … e’r’hm, your _supervisors_ … will be pleased with you as well. You’ll be forever known as the Raptor of Eden, just think of that!”

Crowlith laughed, _really_ laughed, like he hadn’t since he couldn’t remember. “Could live with that.”

The pair subsided into an easy silence. Crowlith knew that he should fly away, but this was … comfortable, this was _pleasant_ , standing side by side with … an enemy, enjoying the cool and embracing dark. The angel seemed to content to just be with him, saying nothing – well, humming a little, that might get annoying after a while, but he didn’t mind it for now – looking at the night sky, the stars, the silver sliver of the moon, while the busy creatures of Eden chittered and scurried and buzzed behind them, unaware that it was all over for them, never to be the center of Her attention again, and maybe that would be for the best, really. 

Tomorrow would come all too soon, and he’d have to go Above and report. He’d have to leave this Garden, the only sweet oasis on a parched and hostile planet. One which he’d gone and _fucked up_ , hadn’t he?

They stood together on the wall above the Eastern Gate throughout the night. A pinkish grey glow far in the distance heralded the return of another brutal day. The dry desert wind picked up, stoking the painful fires beneath Crowlith’s skin. The sun climbed higher and higher. Soon he would have to go seek what refuge there was to be found in the boiling steam and blinding dazzle and endless _noise_ of Hell.

Suddenly, a cool shadow fell over him. A damp fresh breeze caressed his cheek. He squinted up to discover the source of this unexpected relief.

Over his head there stretched a midnight-black wing.

He glanced to his right. Aziraphale was still gazing off to the horizon, watching the tiny brown figures that could only be distinguished from the cracked soil by ethereal (or occult) vision. The angel didn’t even seem to be aware of what must have been an instinctive gesture to comfort and protect.

To comfort and protect a _demon_.

Crowlith sidled slightly closer. He could stay here a _little_ longer. He didn’t look at Aziraphale again.

It was evening, and it was morning, and it was their first day.

Notes:

1\. which he always tried to be; it was a wily but devastatingly _effective_ tactic. Back

2\. all right, Crowlith knew perfectly well what he was watching, and that it was all the demon’s fault, and he wasn’t going to feel guilty about that, he _wasn’t_ , he just _asked questions_ , how was he to know how badly it would all turn out? Back

3\. Of course the angel _had_ one, great terrifying stabby-slicey thing… easily the most Holy weapon that the demon had ever sensed in all his (admittedly limited) experience. That was why Crowlith had given him a wide berth until now. While he didn’t particularly _enjoy_ being a demon, he wasn’t exactly eager to end his existence either. Back

4\. Crowlith knew very well why they were so afraid. He had been there when they lost the War, after all. If you even wanted to dignify “having your name and your purpose and your connection to Heaven and your very _being_ bloody _incinerated_ before you even had a chance to finish asking, _Hey, guys, didja ever wonder why—_ “ with the label “losing”.Back


	2. In the firmament of Her power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _**Aziraphale, what am I to do with you?** _
> 
> _“Oh, good Lord,” he groaned._ __
> 
> Mum drops by for a chat.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to Emma Peelfan, for extensive beta-ing and help with an important bit of Foreshadowing (Your Sign Of Quality Literature)

Aziraphale fitted the last stone back into the colossal wall and sighed. He didn’t know what the Almighty had planned for Eden now that the humans had been expelled; but he intended that, insofar as _he_ could protect the rest of Her creations from the harsh elements outside, he would. After all, nobody had told him to _stop_ guarding the Gate…yet.

That time would come soon, he supposed. He would be recalled to Heaven, and all the birds, insects and reptiles, trees and flowers would … vanish? Wither away? Or perhaps continue on, glorious in all their vibrant variety, but with no one to admire and love them?

No sooner had the sorrowful notion taken root than Aziraphale flinched in shame. He was such a _rubbish_ angel. Had been ever since the War had taken all serenity. It had stripped away all _certainty_ , as surely it tore the blessed Dark from his rebellious siblings as they rose ever higher. He remembered his horror as he saw them screaming in agony and catching fire in the daystar’s unforgiving radiation, burning every color to ash… No, he should not be feeling so sorry for himself! Surely he should pity their torment, instead … or should he? Perhaps not. They were risen now, by their own choice, irredeemable… _monstrous._ Although that Crowlith, last night, seemed a decent enough fellow … no, that was _definitely_ not a proper way to think. It was so hard, never to be sure of the right thing to do.

He should be excited and happy at the thought of going back down Below. Heaven was nothing like the Earth; it was cool, and dark, and _lovely_ , and filled with Her grace like a gentle ocean. The darkness and silence freed angelic senses from the constant assault of gross Earthly matter. He wouldn’t even _need_ a corporation anymore; although Aziraphale rather wondered if he might want to keep his (would that be permitted? Surely there was no rule against it), the better to appreciate all the exquisite scents he remembered from the ethereal realm., none better than the fragrance that came from being surrounded by family …

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose a little, recalling the acrid odor of resentment the _last_ time he had been down in Heaven. When he had been issued with that … _terrifying_ … weapon. It was a great honour, of course, anyone could tell that sword was infused with an extraordinary degree of Holiness, and for all its size and … presence … it fit as easily and lightly in his left hand as if it had been made for him.1 Still, the sharp, _eager_ scent of the thing had been quite disconcerting, and that razor-keen frozen edge! Michael, Heaven’s most accomplished Warrior, could scarcely conceal her disgust that such a mighty weapon had been bestowed upon a mere Principality. Gabriel didn’t even bother to try; how was he supposed to keep his soldiers in fighting trim, when they saw such a feckless specimen receive this degree of undeserved consideration? Aziraphale was sure that they couldn’t have understood his involuntary shudder when he first examined the sword on Earth. That impossibly dark, unfathomably translucent blade forged of Holy Ice seemed somehow to _drink in_ the light of the spiteful sun; then wept tears of a red so deep it looked almost black.

Well, at least jealousy from the other angels shouldn’t be a problem anymore. Although, once he returned Below; their derision and contempt at his folly might be nearly as bad. He wondered briefly if it might be possible to keep his actions a secret. He wouldn’t have to _lie_ , exactly, so much as … _deflect_. It wasn’t any of their business, surely, what he chose to do with his own sword.

He worried (again) about his impulsive decision to hand it on to the human couple. What would proximity to such a potent artifact do to them? Would drinking from it be harmful to their fragile human essences? And oh, the _baby_ , not yet even born! But it was Holy Water, the very _holiest_ , surely… at any rate, any effect had to be better than dying of thirst and heat.

Aziraphale knew he would miss being on Earth. Here, in the privacy of his thoughts, he could admit how much he liked seeing all the pretty colors and graceful shapes, how he delighted in the melodies and rhythms of life going about the simple business of just, well, living. Even a touch of the sun’s warmth could be pleasant, so long as there was shelter from the worst of the heat. And the _flavours_! And, after all, these material things were all creatures of the Almighty, so it surely couldn’t be _wrong_ of him to enjoy them so, could it?

Once again, he found himself recalling the conversation from the previous night. The demon was one of Her creatures as well, was he not? And Crowlith smelled ever so _nice_ : rather like burnt cinnamon and cardamom pods, with a whiff of brimstone cutting any potential for cloying sweetness. 

And he was so pretty to look at! Aziraphale knew very well that he should have been repulsed by all that deathly paleness, but the demon’s silver-white wings instead reminded Aziraphale of moonlight: just as the Earth’s barren partner would reflect the sun’s poisonous glare, transmuting it to a gentler gleam, so perhaps those wings, in their very absence of color, somehow refracted the overwhelming potency of their Creator’s grace.

All such musings aside, the demon’s corporation was undeniably attractive. Despite his name, Crowlith was not at _all_ like any the corvids, with their dark iridescence and raucous manner, but more like … their cousin the shrike, the angel decided.2 He lacked a butcherbird’s black eyes and bold stripes, but his hooked nose certainly called to mind a cruel, barbed beak; and even the demon’s blazing ringlets reminded Aziraphale of the russet cap sported by the males of some subspecies. Crowlith’s manner had displayed that same odd combination of wary stillness and sudden swift jerky motion not unlike the birds Aziraphale had observed in Eden. And while it must hurt awfully to burn within, as all demons must, he couldn’t say that it was exactly _unpleasant_ to feel a little warmth by his own side. He wondered if it would burn an angel’s fingertips, if he should happen to brush them against the skin of a demon (accidentally, of course!), and wasn’t _that_ a dangerous line of thought! How fortunate that no one could hear what he was think…

**Aziraphale.**

The angel, to his everlasting embarrassment, let out a high-pitched squeak as he nearly jumped out of his corporation.3

**Aziraphale, what _am_ I to do with you?**

“Oh, good _Lord_ ,” he groaned.

**Well spotted!**

And really, wasn’t Her peculiar sense of humor bad enough, did She have to resort to sarcasm too?

“Lord, if this is about that sword … well, You see … and there is going to be a _baby_ … and I thought, well, I _thought_ …”

**You gave it away.**

“Yes, Lord.” The angel wrung his hands nervously.

**That isn’t why I gave the sword to you, Aziraphale.**

Aziraphale twisted his hands together, trying not to pull them off completely. “I … understand.”

**No. You absolutely do _not_. **

“Oh, _dear_. This is another one of those … _ineffable_ things, isn’t it?”

**Perhaps _._**

“I am so _very_ sorry. The other angels were _right_ , I shouldn’t have been _trusted_ , I’m not _fit…_ ”

**Aziraphale.** She said more gently. **You are My beloved child. And, like all My children, infinitely _precious_.**

“Yes, Mother.” Aziraphale felt comforted enough to dare greatly: “ _All_ Your children?”

**The human beings, _indeed_ yes. **The wind sighed around him, a great swirl of sorrow. **And _yes_ , Beloved, your Risen siblings as well. But because you - all of you - are so very treasured by Me, I will _not_ take away your choices. No matter how hard your choices will make things for you. No matter, - **playfully chiding – **no matter how much you might _prefer_ that I take them away.**

“Did I … did I make the _wrong_ choice?”

**I gave the sword to _you_ , My Quiet One.4 It was yours to do with as you saw fit. **The cosmos seemed to shrug around him. **Your choice will certainly make things a bit more difficult.**

“Oh, dear. I do… Will it be all right?”

**Aziraphale. Do you really worry that you have the power to seriously disrupt _My_ plans?**

“Ah. Er. … Of course not?”

**More difficult for _you_ , I meant. And … for the humans, as well. So.** Brisk, now. **You chose to make your sword a gift to humanity. Therefore, I will make you _My_ gift to humanity. Perhaps, in some ways, My _best_ gift.**

“I am … to stay on Earth, then?” The angel began to feel the stir of a giddy hope. “My mission here is not finished? I can still” – _enjoy them –_ “help them?”

**You shall stay on Earth … _until_ you choose to reclaim your sword. To wield it as intended at the Beginning. Still, I fear that humanity will not appreciate you as they ought, My Helpful One.**

“Oh, no worries there, quite all right, shall I go to them now?” Aziraphale answered eagerly. He didn’t have to return Below! There would be more to see, to hear, to touch, to _taste_! Perhaps he might re-encounter … He squashed that thought firmly. “I am afraid it must be very unpleasant for the poor dears, out there in the light—“

**It is true that they did choose the harder journey. To know both Good _and_ Evil. And I had prepared so much that was _good_ within these walls… **A bit wistful. **I don’t think they have any idea _,_ how much evil … Still, you might smooth their path for them a little. Why don’t you begin by letting the Garden out?**

“But … I can’t do that!” The angel was aghast. “I mean … forgive me, Lord, but … The _heat_! The _drought_! All Your lovely creatures … they will all _die_!”

**Not … _all_ of them. Not … immediately. Many of them, perhaps. Death is now … very much present in this world, Beloved. I grieve for the pain you must experience. **Aziraphale felt the refreshing sweetness of Her Darkness briefly enfold him. **But some will … survive. Adapt. Thrive, even.**

“But I didn’t … I didn’t want … I didn’t _know_!”

**Nevertheless, you _chose_. Guardian, it is time for you to open the Eastern Gate.**

Notes:  


1\. It might very well have been. Heaven’s armoury was nearly as ineffable as She.  Back

2.. Aziraphale’s grasp of avian taxonomy was pretty shaky, but he wasn’t precisely _wrong_. Back

3.. Millennia later, when Aziraphale had sufficient courage (and alcohol) to recount the story to one particular demon, the latter dismissed his humiliation: “Honestly, angel, if _I_ had been in your robes, I’d prob’ly have _pissed_ myself.” Aziraphale didn’t believe him, of course; not only had he by that time formed a rather favourable estimation of his counterpart’s insouciance, but more practically, their corporations simply didn’t work that way. Still, it was a kind gesture on the dear boy’s part. Back

4\. One etymology for Aziraphale’s name is ‘The Silence of God’. Some might find that name ironically inappropriate. Of course, these beings have never met Gabriel.Back


	3. O mountains and hills and all that grows upon the earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Zzo? What are you waiting for?” Beelzebub arose from their throne, and pointed commandingly towards the mass of congealed gases that served Hell as a floor. “Get down there and MEZZ THEM UP!”_
> 
> Crowlith isn't particularly thrilled to be stationed on Earth, but the job does have its compensations.

One night chatting together on a garden wall, Crowlith knew, did not the beginning of a beautiful friendship make.

They had run across each other from time to time over the centuries, of course. Small world.1 They’d give a cautious wave—well, _Aziraphale_ would wave, Crowlith would maybe nod, do a complicated sort of thing with his eyebrows—and maybe a little late night professional small talk somewhere private, as one does, at least when one is a supernatural entity permanently stationed on Earth.

That was _all_ it was.

And if an avian-form Crowlith made a habit of surveying every new encampment or village from above, adopting a hawk’s piercing vision to detect any possible hint of angelic presence, well, that was only doing his job, right? Even if, _especially_ if, the angel in question never seemed to show the slightest inclination to indulge in a bit of smiting. Was actually never anything less than civil. One might almost call it friendly, but demons didn’t have friends2, and … well, that only proved that Aziraphale was playing a very deep game indeed3, and required careful watching. 

Besides, whatever else he was, Aziraphale was _interesting_ , in ways that most of the demon’s targets definitely weren’t. Humans, Crowlith quickly realized, were by and large dull _._ He couldn’t exactly blame them; their lives were short, insignificant, and consumed with snatching brief moments of pleasure and avoiding enormous wallops of suffering before their inevitable nasty deaths. Tempting them was a doddle _;_ he could do it with his eyes closed.4 Play upon their fear, appeal to their greed, dangle the lure of letting them watch some other pathetic git have it even worse; and there you had it: soul corrupted, achievement unlocked, off to the next watering hole and another dreary assignment.

To be honest, after the first two managed to get themselves tossed from Eden, Crowlith hadn’t expected ever to see another human again. Maybe he felt a little - not exactly guilty - he was just doing his job, after all. It was just a shame that they were doomed to a quick extinction in the harsh, broken world outside of the Garden. Still, that was really all the _Almighty’s_ fault, wasn’t it, not _Crowlith’s_. Maybe She should try plopping Her next Grand Experiment on a planet where they had a chance to fucking _survive_. But still that Eve had been a bit of all right, good company, really. She was quick and curious and funny; although that man of hers – Adam was it? – was rather a lump.

So anyways, after that whole Apple Incident, Crowlith thought the smartest move would be to retreat to the sweltering cacophony and stink of Hell, turn in his report, and devote all his wiles and prodigious imagination to the absolutely vital _Project: Avoid Being Noticed_. Therefore, it was with no little terror that some time later he received a summons to attend upon Beelzebub Themself. And it was with even greater shock that Crowlith witnessed an expression of not-entirely-pissed-off-ness upon the blotchy face of the Prince of Hell.

“Humanzz.” Beelzebub pronounced.

“Yeah,” Crowlith nodded, ready to agree with anything so long as he could get the Heaven out of there.

“That izz what we have been told,” Beelzebub went on, scratching with one pale finger beneath the tangle of maggots they wore like a crown. “That you are the exzzpert on theze petzz of _Herzzzz._ ” The last word was accompanied with an angry buzz that was almost a spit.

“Yeah,” Crowlith said again, because what _else_ could he say?

“Zzo? What are you _waiting_ for?” Crowlith must have looked blank, because Beelzebub arose from their throne, and pointed commandingly towards the mass of congealed gases that served Hell as a floor. “Get down there and MEZZ THEM UP!”

And so Crowlith went. And who’d have believed, but the humans had not only gone forth, but multiplied, and were bouncing all along the surface of the world like fleas on a camel’s arse. He’d asked Aziraphale once, during one of their evening chats, how the humans had ever managed that, but the angel had only turned a rather delightful purplish ochre and muttered something about “oh, the birds and the bees, _you_ know.”5 Crowlith (who would have gargled Holy Water before admitting that he _didn’t_ know) snarked, “Oh, and those whozits, _Nephilim_ , they didn’t have anything do with it?” At that, Aziriphale sniffed like someone had farted in the stewpot, and walked off without another word. Crowlith decided that counted as a Win.

And then there was that weird plethora of plants and animals. Crowlith hadn’t spent any time outside the Garden his first time Down, but he had seen the technical specs, and there wasn’t as much as a beetle or a brittlebush out there. But now the region where the humans lived was _alive_ – nothing like Eden’s lush profusion, but still a hardy, scrappy, bad-tempered ecosystem. Plants and trees, bugs, birds, rodents, and even domestic beasts, all of which seemed to have formed a grudging arrangement to keep each other alive long enough to eat or be eaten. Mind you, Crowlith wasn’t _complaining_. Humans might be boring but they were better company than demons, and it was all vastly preferable to Hell. He just didn’t understand where it all _came_ from.

He pieced the story together eventually, in dribs and drabs that the angel let slip as they traded information and tips. Aziraphale alluded to shepherding a living parade out of Eden (how and why and with whose _permission_ was never made clear), growing less vibrant, perhaps, but steadily tougher and meaner, managing to survive to reach the exiled humans. There were references to the angel finding shelter in caves for the little human family; others to that family (grown large and tangled) settling in a broad plain, nurtured by three reliable rivers. There was a tragedy of some kind (Crowlith wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, and didn't have quite enough nerve to pry), which led Aziraphale to sever his open association with the humans, but he never lost his instinct to protect and guard. 

And there were many comments, so many that Crowlith became quite sick of them, of how these humans were so clever and brave and _persistent_ , turning their enemy the sun into a tool, hardening the sterile mud that they shaped into bricks to use in building their own cave-like structures. They were grinding and boiling and baking the hard, indigestible seeds and stems that they foraged and cultivated into edible pottages and breads. The angel even boasted how the humans would capture, enslave, and steal from wild creatures7 for their labor, milk, eggs, and skins.

But a job was a job, and Crowlith was good at his. If it didn’t take much power to lead these humans into temptation, he’d make up for it in style. So he just continued on with the work, sending up (possibly _slightly_ exaggerated) reports that he hoped might forestall any need for a personal appearance. Simple. Uncomplicated. Boring.

Until the afternoon Aziraphale found Crowlith beneath that palm tree.

Notes:

1\. In fact, it was a pretty _huge_ world. Great big bugger. But the portion of the planet that could currently support human life _was_ fairly small.  Back

2\. Crowlith might have been a tad over-optimistic when he selected his demonic name. He had an affinity for all birds, could take the form of any, but probably resembled raptors (and, okay, shrikes, they were downright _badass_ for passerines) more than any other family. Still, he genuinely admired corvids—how could he not? They were intelligent and gorgeous and had an insolent sense of humour—but mostly because they were gregarious and always had each other’s backs. After the cold propriety of Heaven, he had rather expected that he and the other Risen would be like that: a tight and loyal flock. It was a rather a shock to discover that his fellow demons retained none of the acerbic charm of those cocky lads he used to hang out with Below. Instead, they had become vicious, cruel, and rather _disgusting_ , and the only use they had for his back would be as a knife block. Back

3\. Which was the only kind of game Heaven ever played. Of course.  Back

4\. Good thing, really. Whatever else he did to his corporeal form, he couldn’t transform either his round gold eyes or clawed feet. The latter he could hide easily enough under long robes and closed-toe sandals, but for the former, he pretty much had to resort to tying a strip of cloth over his eyes and claiming to be blind. It also helped that most of the humans he encountered were too selfish and unhappy to bother about anyone else. Back

5\. At the time, Crowlith had only the haziest theoretical knowledge about sexual reproduction (he wasn’t an _incubus_ , thank you very much, that was a _foul_ assignment, reserved for those demons who managed to thoroughly disappoint their managers, just not quite enough to be sacked6), so Aziraphale’s explanation left him with a confusing mental image of meter-long eggs stuffed into the cells of towering hives.  Back

6\. Literally. Being “sacked” in Hell meant being slitted from guggle to zatch, and the drippy remnants left hanging in a gore-spattered bag of one’s own skin.  Back

7\. Aziraphale didn’t use those particular verbs, of course, but Crowlith figured that he was entitled to his own opinions.  Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for laying the groundwork! Next chapter, actual plot advancement!
> 
> Thanks again to beta extraordinaire, Emma Peelfan, who talked me into removing [blush] OVER TWENTY "and"s.


	4. All birds of the air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“We’ll drink it together. On the count of three, then?”_
> 
> _The demon nodded, and on “three” took a cautious sip. His pupils dilated, and he took a larger swallow. “S’_ good _.”_
> 
> _“Of course it is,” Aziraphale sniffed. “I do not lie, Crowlith.”_
> 
> An angel and a demon find at least one Earthly experience they can enjoy together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't what I was planning for the next chapter, but it has been a horrible week and I apparently needed four thousand words of drunken banter, sweet fluffy angel, and dork demon. I hope that it is equally soothing to some of you reading it.
> 
> Again, heartfelt gratitude to Emma Peelfan for the beta.
> 
> And thanks to YOU for reading this, for kudos, and for comments. Connection is life.

It was the heaps of grey feathers and ragged chirps that first drew Aziraphale’s attention to the date palm, standing alone on a little hill perhaps a hundred paces from the track. That and the piercing sensation of raw anger and grief that cut through the more muted waves of avian hilarity. It was only when he had wandered over to peer under the branches that he caught the flash of familiar red hair and pale skin.

“Crowlith? Is that you? What have you done to yourself?” he called softly.

“What have _I_ done? More like what have your precious _humans_ d-d-done?” The demon was crouching, head bent forward, eyes wildly dilated. He held a limp collared pigeon in one hand, gently stroking it with the other. “I know that they hate birds, call them _vermin_ , even harass them to keep them out of their crops. But why bother to _poison_ them, this tree doesn’t belong to anybod-d-d-dy…” His teeth chattered with a furious clacking sound. He abruptly thrust the bird forward. “Here. I can’t-t-t… You’re an _angel_ , you can heal them, I can’t tell what’s wrong with them…” 

Bemused, Aziraphale took the proffered pigeon. It gave him a half-hearted coo, eyes flashing. The angel bit back a laugh. “Oh, my dear… They’re not poisoned! Well, I suppose that technically they _are_ , but they’ll be fine in a few hours. They won’t thank either of us for, er, ‘healing’ them.” He looked up at the branches and sniffed. Yes, amid the heavy sweetness of over-ripe fruit, he caught the expected sharp odor of fermentation. “They’ve gone to considerable effort to put themselves in this state, after all.” 

“Don’t mock me, Aziraphale.” Crowlith’s shoulders were still hunched around his ears. “S’not like you to be cruel.”

The angel’s amused expression softened. “You’ve never seen this before? Late in the summer, when the sugars in the fruit begin to …” He raised the hand that had been absent-mindedly stroking the pale feathers and wiggled his fingers in the air. “… fizz?”

“Don’t know what you’re going on about,” the demon answered sullenly. He scooped up another pigeon and cradled it awkwardly against his chest.

“Well, then, let me tem- _show_ you!” Aziraphale reached for one of the dates the sozzled birds had spared. He tilted back his head, closed his eyes, and bit into it, slurping a little as he sucked out the fermented juices. He licked the bluish-purple stain off his lips, sighed happily, then shook himself in a small wiggle as the alcohol hit his corporation. He opened his eyes again to see Crowlith staring at him, mouth slightly agape, two bright spots of color high on his cheeks. “You really ought to try it, my dear fellow.”

Crowlith snapped his mouth shut and looked away. “Y’know I don’t eat _fruit_.”

The angel hummed, thinking. He did know that; at least Crowlith had growled at him every time he offered to share some delightful treat. While the demon didn’t need to eat to maintain his physical corporation, no more than he himself did, Aziraphale suspected that there was more to it than that. He had seen a shrike eat before, and it was not a pretty business. But surely Crowlith wasn’t _ashamed_ … Perhaps he shared carnivorous tastes with the raptors he so resembled. And meat, alas, was simply not a feature of human diet.1

“Ah!” Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and an earthenware cup appeared in his hand. Choosing several more dates, he squeezed the foaming juice into the bowl of the cup, and offered it to the other with a flourish.

Crowlith looked at the cup, and back to the angel. He sighed, and pointed at his pale face. “Hello? Demon?”

Oh, yes. _That_. Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to look embarrassed. One of the more … _exquisite_ …tortures of the Risen was their inability to tolerate the sweet water that symbolized the Almighty’s refreshing grace. To be forever thirsty in the furnace of Hell’s cruelly deceptive clouds, formed of noxious gases rather than the water vapor that composed the Earthly layer beneath them. _2 _Aziraphale saw no reason to doubt the rumours that demons turned to bloodsucking to slake their endless thirst. Which gave him an idea...

“But Crowlith, this isn’t _water_. Not at all! One might say it is the very _lifeblood_ of the tree!” He frowned at the demon’s skeptical eyebrows. “Come, come, my boy, you are forever boasting of your prodigious imagination, how it supplies you with abilities beyond any of your fellows. If you _imagine_ that this is, er, date-blood, then surely it will be!”

Crowlith still seemed reluctant, arms folded against his narrow chest.

“Oh, don’t be _tedious_ , Crowlith. You said it yourself. Why should I go to such elaborate lengths merely to poison you?” Aziraphale sighed. “Here.” He handed over the cup, then miracled up another for himself. “We’ll drink it together. On the count of three, then?”

The demon nodded, and on “ _three”_ took a cautious sip. His pupils dilated, and he took a larger swallow. “S’ _good_.”

“Of course it is,” Aziraphale sniffed. “I do not _lie_ , Crowlith.” He seated himself primly on the ground, smoothing his twilight-blue robe over his knees, one foot delicately pushing a pair of floppy birds out of the way. He snapped a large bowl into existence, and miracled the fermented must of the remaining dates into it, fastidiously sieving out seeds and stems. He set the now-brimming bowl on his left, and patted the ground next to it. “Do join me, there’s a good, er, wicked demon.”

Crowlith stared at the hand, then at the angel. He gave one sharp barking laugh, then bobbed his head agreeably. “Why not?”

Several hours later, they were still drinking and chatting. Even though the vesper breezes began to cool the brutal heat as the sun approached the horizon, neither showed any inclination to venture from beneath the date-palm’s shade. Aziraphale had relaxed his perfect posture, and was now slouching against the tree, waving his arms about as he talked. Three drunk pigeons had hopped into his generous lap and gone to sleep, while several more had nestled up against him. “But that’s exactly what I’ve been saying! Aside from some silly superstitions, there’s no reason to characterize birds as, as _evil_! The Almighty must surely have a special love for them; She gave them angel wings, after all. And the humans don’t hate birds. They raise them… well, _some_ birds. Chickens. And geese.” He searched his memory. “Ducks!”

Crowlith had also made himself comfortable, in his peculiar birdlike way, perched upon one bent leg, the other curled beneath him. His pupils flashed (a sign that the angel had come to understand as signifying a feeling of ease), dilating and expanding rapidly. The gentle bobbing of his head didn’t seem to disturb the pigeon that had settled atop his fiery locks, a sight that Aziraphale strove mightily to find ridiculous rather than endearing. “No, no. You don’t get-t-t it. Proves my point. Chickens don’t _fly_. They’re … ground birds. Un-bird-ish.”

“That’s not a word!”

“Fine, fine. _Anti_ -birds, then. Traitor birds. Gone over to the enemy.” Crowlith scowled and pointed downward. “The point is… the _point_ is … s’all a … wotsit. Thingy that is like another thingy.”

“Metaphor?”

“Yes!” The demon raised his cup in triumph. “Metaphor! Birds, proper birds, fly _up_ , y’see! Attracted to Hell, they are. And that’s why they’re evil!”

Aziraphale cooed at the pigeons in his lap. “You are _not_ evil. You are sweet and cute and fluffy.” He poured Crowlith another cupful. “I don’t actually know that many demons. But surely they … you … Not _all_ demons are avian, are they?”

“Ehhh…” Crowlith cocked his head, and the dove in his hair dug in its claws to keep from sliding off. “Ow. Bugger off, you little shite.” He unsnagged the bird and dropped it to the ground (gently, the angel noticed). “Some. Vultures, kites, eagles… Lots more insects: flies, of course, but also gnats, wasps, bees ...”

“Wasps’re _pretty_ ,” Aziraphale interrupted. “All those colours. And bees are friendly and, and, helpful.”

Crowlith rolled his eyes.3 “They also sting and bite. And they fly, that’s what’s important. Demons are all about the flying. Birds. Bugs. Bats. Ligur’s a bloody _squirrel_.”

“No! Really? But … _I_ fly,” Aziraphale noted, rather offended.

“ _You_ ,” Crowlith retorted, “fly like, like rain falls. Like, dunno, petals on the evening breeze. Anyone who’d look at you flying and think of _evil_ is a proper idiot.” He downed his drink in a single long gulp.

Aziraphale looked over, startled. The words seemed like a compliment, but the demon’s tone was accusatory. Almost _angry_. Too much alcohol made one say strange things, it seemed. He cast about for something to share that might serve as a fair exchange for this unexpected glimpse into a demon’s private thoughts. “Well, then, you must think that Eve was an idiot.”

“Eve? From the Garden, Eve? Nah, she was a sharp one—wait.” Crowlith frowned. “Eve thought _you_ were evil? Because she caught you _flying_? Yank on the other one, Aziraphale.”

“It wasn’t flying.” Aziraphale finished off his own cupful, and immediately refilled it. This was a terribly painful memory. “It was the sword.” He swirled the drink in his cup, then took a long swallow. “I believe that I told you about the first few years. Before they made it to the rivers. The sword was really their only source of water—I managed to miracle a rainstorm every year or so, but there was precious little for me to work with—and I do believe it kept them alive. But… I can’t help but wonder if it _changed_ them.”

“Eh, it would be points to your side if it made them more”—a demon sneer—“ _holy_.”

“Perhaps it might have done, but that’s not what happened.” The angel drank again. “It made them … angry, I think. Violent. Especially the oldest two, the boys, the ones who lived entirely on the sword’s holy tears. Even after … well, once they had the choice, the parents forbade use of that water except in extremity, but Cain and Abel … they didn’t listen, they … to make a long story short, there was an argument, and Cain killed his brother. With the sword.”

“With … _your_ sword.”

“Yes. Although it isn’t … technically … _mine_ anymore.” Aziraphale turned the cup in his hands. His throat felt too tight to swallow another sip. “Eve … she was … so much _grief_. Fury. I don’t think … she … they … _none_ of us had quite realized that humans could … _die_ … until then.” With a sudden violent motion, he threw the cup away from him. It sailed past the footpath, and shattered against a large rock, splashing red liquid everywhere. 

“Angel… Aziraphale …” Crowlith’s voice was unexpectedly soft. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“No? Perhaps not.” Aziraphale heard a _snap!_ to his left, and another cup, filled to the brim, was pushed into his hand. He accepted it without thinking. “Eve did not wish to see me again after that.”

“I mean, if it was anyone’s fault, it was _mine._ ” There was a sharp note of anger in the demon’s voice. “Or, y’now, _Her’s_. All part of the _Plan_ , innit-t-t-t?” The avian clacking was very pronounced now.

“Crowlith! You mustn’t say such things!” Aziraphale couldn’t conceal his instinctive horror. 

“Why not? S’not like I’m going to rise even higher, is it?” The demon sounded quizzical. “Buck up, Aziraphale. Mortality is part of the human design. A few decades earlier or later, not really worth getting that upset over.”

The angel buried his face in his hands. “You don’t understand …” How could he explain what it had been like, when he had experienced that first human death? He could have stopped it. He was faster, stronger, than any human could be. Even in Cain’s grip, the weapon would have answered to him, Aziraphale knew: **_You shall stay on Earth until you choose to reclaim your sword_**. But no, he found himself standing still, just _watching_ , until Abel’s life had left his torn body, and Aziraphale had felt … almost a sense of fulfillment, of horrid satisfaction even, like a little _chime_ between his shoulder blades where his wings would manifest, saying _yes, this is how it shall be for them_ , this sudden and violent completion of the curse he had heard pronounced in the Garden: **_For dust you are, and to dust you shall return._**

Even worse, he kept on feeling it. Rarely, at first, but then every few months, then daily, then almost all the time. Every human death, every return to dust, would ring through him, with all the pain and fear and grief that soul experienced. After a century or so, he got … well, not _accustomed_ to it, but no longer paralyzed. He had learned that the more gentle and easy the death, the less painful for him to bear. It was shameful, really; even Gabriel, his immediate commander, would give him grudging credit for his tireless efforts to guard and comfort the humans, when it was just Aziraphale being selfish, trying to protect himself from the worst shocks of their inevitable deaths. 

He couldn’t stand to listen to Crowlith make light of it. It wasn’t the demon’s fault, he didn’t know, and Aziraphale would never ever _ever_ lay that burden on another, even one of the Risen. Still… “Please, Crowlith. _Don’t_.”

“All right, all right, Aziraphale, this is me shutting up,” the demon grumbled, his customary bitter mockery replaced by … concern? No, that couldn’t be right. “Just … explain to me, what it is about these gormless creatures that makes you so willing to put up with all their stupid drama?”

“Why, it’s my—” Aziraphale answered immediately.

Crowlith cut him off with a gesture. “Nuh-uh, nothing about ‘ _duty_ ’. That’s bollocks and we both know it. No duty would stop you from heading back down for nice restful vacay and forgetting to come back.”

Aziraphale might have argued the point, but not with this much alcohol in his corporation. _In khamr, candor_ , he thought, inadvertently anticipating several thousand years of similar maxims. “But _you’re_ here!”

“ _NGK_ ” the demon choked. What a peculiar noise. “PARDON?”

“You’ve been up here—well, down here in your case—almost as long as I, so you _must_ know. Humans are very lovable, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Crowlith coughed. “How so?” One demonic eyebrow rose skeptically. “And I don’t want to hear another word about how humans are so _clever_. I’m much cleverer than any of this dismal lot, and I’ve never done anything with it but cause trouble.”

“They…” Aziraphale opened his mouth, then shut it again. Why _did_ he care, after all? He was an angel, angels were creatures of pure love, everybody knew _that_ , but his siblings seemed perfectly content to express that love from the greatest distance possible. Even the Almighty had apparently washed Her hands of them; Aziraphale hadn’t heard from Her directly since She had commanded him to open the Gate, and if She was speaking to humans, he hadn’t seen any evidence of it (and he had looked, oh, how he had looked!) An alcohol-infused melancholy urged him to concede that Crowlith was right; whether it was an innate depravity or simply the harsh conditions of existence, people could be so cruel. Selfish. Foolish. Prone to despair. A few shrewd inventions, or any number of delicious meals, hardly balanced the constant barrage of suffering. And yet… “They tell stories.”

“Wot?”

“They tell stories. They share with each other what they have done. What happened to their ancestors in the past. What they dream their children might do in the future. They think up people who never existed, places they’ve never been, situations that are simply impossible, and they string them together and tell each other about it.”

Crowlith looked bewildered. “You mean they _lie_? ‘Course they lie. Everybody lies. _I_ lie. Don’t make me _lovable_.”

“Not … lies. Not exactly.” Aziraphale closed his eyes and remembered. He remembered times around the communal fire. He remembered the animated gestures of elders and the rapt faces of listening children. He remembered poets and singers who seemed to be drawing on a Heavenly power he had never before encountered. “They are telling truth, but truth that is far too deep and shadowy to be expressed by facts. They take beautiful words and images and capture sorrows and joys and angers and possibilities that are beyond what _is_ , and reach into what _might_ be, what _ought_ to be.” He opened his eyes again and turned his head to look full at the demon. “ _You_ know. You call it ‘imagination’. But they do it for each other. And it’s _magic_. It’s a completely human _miracle_.”

Crowlith didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away, either. His golden eyes seemed to glow in the fading light.

“And do you know what else, my dear? They _sing_. They take their stories and they add melody and rhythm and meter, and they sing them to each other. They sing while they work. They sing their children to sleep. They sing when they wake up to greet another day filled with hardship and heat, and after hours of work and pain and inevitable disappointment, they sing again to their tomorrows.” Aziraphale lifted his cup, as if to share it with all the humans around him, all who had left, all who were to come. “They are _wondrous_ , Crowlith. How can I _not_ love them?”

The demon lifted his cup as well, and drank, still holding Aziraphale’s eyes. Then he looked down at the cranky pigeons, as they began to rise to their feet with grumbling little peeps, and a grin quirked one corner of his mouth. “Yeah? _I_ can sing too, you know.”

“Oh, no, my dear fellow.” The angel gazed at him in maudlin sorrow. “No, you cannot. The gift of celestial harmony … that was burned away in the Rise. I’m afraid you’ve forgotten.”

Crowlith snorted. “Like I’d _forget_. ‘M not talking about choir practice.” He jerked a thumb towards his chest. “Bird, remember?”

“Ooooooh.” Aziraphale sat up a bit straighter in interest. “So, do you mean, that … that you can, say, _coo_ like these delightful pigeons?”

“’S’not a bloody coo, Aziraphale. ‘S…” and here the demon gave throaty purr, followed by a few soft grunts.

Aziraphale clasped his hands before him with delight. “Oh, that’s _marvelous_! I had no idea that a demon could sound so, so, well, affectionate.”

The demon scoffed. “That’s not _affection_. It means something more like, ‘ _Sod off, I’m comfortable here_ ’.”

“No, really? I had no notion.” Aziraphale petted the birds in his lap softly. “By all means, stay as long as you like, you dear little things,” he told them. “What else? Does the nightingale actually sing _jug jug jug_?”

“Arggh, please, stop. I am actually begging you. You have no idea how humiliating that is.” Crowlith shook his head, then sang a lilting flutelike trill. “And before you ask, that means something like ‘ _This here is my bit, get out before I run you out_.’ Birds hardly ever have anything _nice_ to say.”

Aziraphale couldn’t restrain himself from applauding like a child. Or from coaxing the demon to demonstrate song after song, “translating” the calls in an increasingly cynical fashion, but all with a slight grin that made the angel suspect the other of gross exaggeration. Honestly, he had forgotten that Crowlith could be so utterly _charming_. As the evening darkened into true night, and the stars began to peek out one by one, the demon warbled and chattered and whistled, preening under Aziraphale’s open delight. The latter surreptitiously miracled the bowl full again and again. He wondered if he should warn Crowlith about hangovers, and the necessity of sobering up; but forgot as the demon’s songs grew more elaborate, and his commentary more outrageous.

“My dear fellow,” Aziraphale slurred. “What about _your_ song?”

Crowlith stilled. “Mine?” He blinked, rather owlishly, it must be confessed.

Aziraphale was not to be deterred. “Yes, yours, you wily old shrike. There you are, minding your own business, well, _Hell’s_ business, sowing chaos, tempting innocent souls into perfidy, and then you see it: a silly, soft angel, stumbling into your turf, preparing to, to, to, _thwart_ you. What’s your call?”

Crowlith tilted his head. Aziraphale could see him imagining the scene. The demon leaned back against the tree, closed his eyes, and began to sing.

This song was much longer than any of the other calls, and more intricate. A complicated series of throbbing trills, which somehow borrowed the distinctive phrases of other birds, followed be a ripple of short sharp whistles, descending into rhythmic buzzing rasps that seemed to thrum on the palms of Aziraphale’s hands and the soles of his feet. 

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say. “That was…” Beautiful? Terrifying? “… Quite something. What does it mean?” 

“It means that I’ve marked-d my prey, and that no other bastard-d-d-d should interfere,” Crowlith said harshly.4 He didn’t open his eyes. He _did_ thrust out his cup for a refill, and the angel was happy to comply. “Maybe enough of the party tricks, eh?”

“Er. Yes. So. I’ve been thinking about my friend, Siduri. Clever—forgive me, but she is!—woman, and a devotee of what she calls the ‘ _simple pleasures_ ’. Ingenious at taking the homeliest ingredients, and making something quite _divine_ to taste. Anyways, I’ve been thinking she could press the juice of ripe dates and somehow _induce_ the fermentation process and…” The angel nattered on, and the demon listened in silence, bobbing his head agreeably upon occasion. 

Eventually, even Aziraphale ran out of things to say, and simply enjoyed the coolness, the darkness, and the quiet company. It reminded him of another evening long ago, and he leaned forward to say something of the sort to Crowlith. But then he noted his stillness and slow, even breathing, as unnecessary as it was. The pigeon that had stubbornly returned to roost upon those warm curls, head tucked beneath its wing; the other nestled in the crook of a sharp elbow.

“My _dear_ fellow.” Aziraphale felt ashamed at the sudden rush of fondness, but refused to push it away. There was no guilt in feeling compassion for _all_ children of the Almighty, was there? And besides, the hours he had spent chatting with Crowlith were hours which the other might have used for … nefarious business. Looked at that way, Aziraphale’s behavior had been positively _commendable_. 

He shook his head to clear his muzzy thoughts, then miracled himself into sobriety. He glanced hesitantly at Crowlith and snapped again. It wouldn’t have been truly angelic to leave the poor boy to the aftermath of his very first experience of alcohol. Leaning a bit closer, he hovered a hand close but not quite touching the demon’s forehead. Aziraphale’s dark fingers looked like a cloud obscuring the moon. The heat beneath that pale skin was palpable but by no means unpleasant. “Dream of whatever you like best, my dear.” 

In his sleep, one corner of Crowlith’s mouth quirked.

It would be many decades before their paths crossed again.

Notes:

1\. As clearly stated in the Book of Genesis (1:29, 2:16-17, 3:18-19), the Almighty intended human beings to follow a vegetarian diet. This was not to change until … well, that’s the subject of the next chapter.  Back

2\. Hence the prominently posted signs: DO NOT LICK THE FLOORS. Not that anyone paid attention—at least, not at _first_. Back

3\. Which, considering that his eyes were perfectly round already, wasn’t as effective as it might have been.  Back

4\. That wasn’t a complete lie. It _was_ a hunting song. Of a sort. Back


	5. O beasts of the wild and all ye flocks and herds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The angel did not smile. “I’m very much afraid that all of us are in trouble.” He glanced again at the crowd, then snapped his fingers to keep their conversation inaudible to any ears but their own. “It appears that … that … well, this planet’s star has, er … gone a bit wobbly.”_
> 
> There are worse things than worldwide floods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We now return to our regularly scheduled mass extinction.
> 
> Thanks as always, to the indefatigable Emma Peelfan for the beta.

_Mesopotamia. 3004 BCE._

Crowlith didn’t much like the look of that sky.

Not that he liked the look of _any_ sky, not in the daylight, only a bloody fool would voluntarily look up at a grim expanse of burning white, not to mention the possibility1 of catching a glimpse of Home Sodding Hell. But this sky was more than bright, it was a livid bruise, and Crowlith wasn’t the only one set on edge. The drought had been going on for more than three years now. Lakes were shrinking. Rivers were drying to a trickle. The whole world reeked of thirst.

He assumed that this was what Aziraphale wanted to talk about. That was definitely a Thing, the angel wanting to talk to him. He had spent years avoiding Aziraphale, after he woke up under a palm tree, flecked with birdshit and with a hazy memory of making an absolute _tit_ of himself.2 When he finally ran into the angel (quite by accident) in one of the new businesses now selling palm wine to customers,3 Aziraphale treated him with only his customary gentle civility. The sole reminder of That Evening was the courteous suggestion “do sober yourself up, dear boy, before you leave,” and okay, that stung a bit, but not enough to keep Crowlith from following his advice.

But it’s not like the angel ever tried to seek him out. In fact, Crowlith nearly missed the message, since the human looking for him (well, looking for a “ginger milk-eye geek…looks like an escapee from his own funeral”4) was looking for a _him_ , and Crowlith often found it professionally convenient to present as an unaccompanied, attractive female while frequenting places of a certain nature. Still, it was nothing that a quick miracle couldn’t repair, once he heard that someone was looking for him. Soon enough, he was dropping coins into the messenger’s hand, and puzzling over the words “ _Your companion of the eastern gate needs to see you by the eastern shore, as soon as possible._ ” Eastern shore of _what_? He vaguely remembered the angel saying something about heading into Shupria, so he’d try Lake Van first. The thought of not complying never even crossed his mind.

Looked like he guessed right. There was the angel, appearing strangely isolated in a noisy confused crowd of humans and animals and … was that an _elephant_? _Kangaroos_? What the Heaven?

“You’re almost too late,” was Aziraphale’s terse greeting.

“Hullo to you too, Aziraphale, how’s it going, why didn’t you come find me _yourself_ if you wanted to chat so badly?” Crowlith responded genially, orbiting the angel as if he could somehow sneak into the bubble of serenity that always shaded him.

“I have been rather busy here, you know,” Aziraphale snapped. “And it’s not like it would have been … safe, for _either_ of us, for me to—what on Earth have you done to your _eyes_?”

Well, that hurt. It had taken Crowlith the better part of a millennium to learn to manipulate the fine muscles and skin of his face to mimic the shape of human eyes. With extra concentration, he could even manage a simulacrum of white sclera. “Helps me blend in,” he said with a shrug. “You don’t like it?”

“I’ll get used to it,” the angel replied non-committedly.

“Look,” said Crowlith with some exasperation. “I know I’m pretty, but did you really want me to come all the way out here just to criticize my face?”

“No…” Aziraphale answered, almost inaudibly, with a minute shake of his head. He looked over the jostling mass of humans and beasts, then up at the wrongness of the sky. “I wanted to … warn you.”

“Oi, am I in trouble again?” Crowlith asked lightly. Sarcasm was his reflexive response to any unexpected occurrence like, say, _a bloody agent of Heaven looking out for a demon_.

The angel did not smile. “I’m very much afraid that _all_ of us are in trouble.” He glanced again at the crowd, then snapped his fingers to keep their conversation inaudible to any ears but their own. “It appears that … that … well, this planet’s star has, er … gone a bit wobbly.”

“Wobbly? The sun is _unstable_?” Crowlith knew stars. This was bad. This was Very Bad. “Are you telling me it’s going to go nova?”

“NO! No!” Aziraphale fluttered his hands in distress. “Heaven has assured me… that is to say, the angelic engineers are quite convinced … they have prepared, er, a fix for this.”

“A. Fix.” Crowlith wasn’t sure how much incredulity he managed to cram into those two words, but whatever it was, it wasn’t enough.

“Oh, yes, indeed,” the angel burbled on, sounding relieved. “Now, I don’t understand all the details, it is definitely all outside my sphere, but I’m told that it involves removing quite a bit of mass from the star, rearranging the orbits of the planets… I believe the sixth one is to be eliminated entirely, poor thing, in order to move everything back a bit… But it _should_ work, and…”

Crowlith nodded, mentally running the numbers, the shape of the system… Yeah, okay, he could see it. Wouldn’t be great, but it would be slightly better. He became aware that Aziraphale was still rambling on.

“…and they say that there is going to be a new phenomenon in the sky as a result, it’s going to be called an ‘E-clipse’. It sounds ever so lovely, like midnight in the middle of the day …”

“Eclipse. Right.” Crowlith interrupted. “How long?”

Aziraphale blinked. “I’m sure I don’t know. Five minutes, maybe?”

“To re-jigger the _entire_ solar system?”

“Oh! Oh, I thought you meant the eclipse. Um.” The angel looked down. “Six months, they tell me. Or thereabouts. That’s not … so very long.”

The demon let out a regrettably avian screech. “Not long! If this continues to get worse for another six months, it’s long enough for everything…everyone on this blessed planet to die!” His eyes narrowed. “Or was that Heaven’s plan all along?”

Aziraphale hesitated.

“It _is_ , isn’t it?” Crowlith could scarcely contain his disgust. He had thought this angel was _different_. But no, he was just like the rest of his genocidal self-righteous lot. “Thank you _so_ much for the warning. I’ll just saunter off to Hell now, best of luck with Her next creation.” He spun around, ready to fly away.

“Crowlith, wait!” Aziraphale cried. “It’s not like … oh, all right, I admit that some of the angels thought … you have to admit that this has all gone wrong from the beginning, and maybe that was my fault, but … I’m not giving up, Crowlith!” He spoke more quietly. “I’m _not_ giving up. I have talked to Heaven. I have … persuaded them. I am permitted to rescue one family. A few of every living creature. I have convinced them that it would be more … efficient … than starting over from scratch.”

“Efficient,” Crowlith spat. “Rescue how?”

Aziraphale directed his gaze past the crowds, to what looked like an enormous construction zone near the shore of the muddy lake. A construction zone, that is, where nothing was actually being built. Just huge quantities of supplies, animals, and a few people, disappearing … into the ground? That didn’t make sense. “There are … caves,” the angel whispered, even though his miracle prevented anyone else from hearing. “A large network of caverns beneath the lake. There is water there. It is full of minerals, it tastes rather bitter, but it is perfectly … safe _._ Natural, that is. And it is cool, and there should be room for … well, enough room. For long enough.” 

“For one family.”

The angel nodded. “A man who lives here. By name of Noah. He has a wife, and three married sons.”

“And he is the most _righteous_ of all humans,” Crowlith sneered. “Obviously.”

Aziraphale turned an annoyed expression towards the demon. “Don’t be an idiot, Crowlith. I wasn’t looking for righteous. I was looking for the type of human who would listen to total stranger announce, ‘Hello there, fear not, I am an angel of the Lord, we require a jolly big hole in the ground” and immediately go out and start digging.”

“Right.” Heav- Hel- _Somewhere_ help him, Crowlith couldn’t completely suppress the tiniest bit of a smirk. “Sounds like the ideal stock to repopulate the Earth.”

“Oh, he isn’t that bad, my dear. Rather eccentric, to be sure, but a decent enough fellow, and an engaging conversationalist. You will, er, I mean, _would_ enjoy him.”

The angel had a complicated look on his face, one that Crowlith couldn’t interpret at all. The demon started to needle him further; but was distracted by a young girl, pointing excitedly at the giraffes and heedless of Aziraphale’s Nothing-To-See-Here zone, who ran smack into the back of Crowlith’s knees. He caught her before she careened to the ground and sent her back towards her friends with a little push. He felt an unusual pang of guilt. He wasn’t all that fond of most human beings, but he had a soft spot for children: so graceless, so tactless, so bursting with inappropriate questions. “And what about the kids, Aziraphale? You can’t kill _kids_.”

“Just the one family, Crowlith. No children. That is all I am permitted to spare.” Aziraphale stared into the distance, his mouth a grim line. “If anyone were to rescue, say, the seventeen children who live in this village, well … that would be a … significant blow against the clear command of Heaven.”

The demon opened his mouth angrily, then shut it again, as he understood. Crowlith circled the angel again, head cocked to one side. “Yeah. Significant.” He thought for a moment. “It would take a real _miracle_ to sneak a pack of kids past all that activity down there.”

“Unfortunately,” Aziraphale answered just as carefully, “a miracle of that order would almost certainly be noticed. By, er … those best equipped to notice such things. However…” he trailed off.

“However…” Crowlith prompted. Why did the angel have to be so bloody oblique?

“Well, I was just thinking.” Aziraphale adopted an expression of pious gratitude. “About how fortunate it is that nobody has ever noticed. The, erm, access tunnel. Used for dumping dirt and the like. Behind the … well, it doesn’t matter, does it?” He stared very hard at distant granary. “It’s been concealed beneath a large boulder, for safety. A boulder shaped rather like a ship.”

“Ship. Right. Very, um, hide-y.”

“But it makes no difference, does it.” The angel continued his observations in that unconvincing singsong. “Because what kind of parents would give care of their beloved children to a stranger. Even if that stranger were very, mmm… _wily_. And even so, they would have to look very … reassuring. Like a harmless old grandmother, or something like that.”

“Aziraphale.” The demon said with some irony. “I _got_ this. This is my, uh, sphere of expertise.” He snapped, and there was a rustle of a veil being drawn over grey-streaked hair.

“Of course. I am merely … speculating. About something that won’t happen.” Aziraphale turned and made a sudden move with his hand, almost as if he were about to touch the demon’s shoulder. “But Crowlith. Please remember … down there …” He cleared his throat. “They are human, my dear. Not … not angels.”

Crowlith’s mouth twisted, then he (now _she_ ) sighed. She supposed that the other couldn’t help it. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Not worthy of Heaven’s care, right.”

Aziraphale flinched as if he had been struck. “No! That’s not what I …” He looked ashamed. “I can’t blame you for assuming. No, what I _meant_ was … well. They are creatures of this Earth, after all. With … with all its flaws. They are accustomed to warmth. To light. They will … miss it.” He searched the demon’s face. “You can … you can give them that, can you not?” 

“Wait, what?” Of all the things the angel had said in this bizarrely-coded conversation, this was the one Crowlith was sure that she must have misunderstood. “You are asking me, suggesting that I, a _demon_ should, should …” She ran out words, and clenched her fist, then opened it to reveal a dancing flame of Hellfire on the palm. “Do Hell stuff? At .. _for_ humans?”

“Certainly not.” Aziraphale turned away again. “Anything of that sort would be completely contrary to my clearly delineated mission.” 

“And won’t you be there? Comforting, protecting, guarding? Isn’t that your mission?”

“It is not.” Aziraphale kept his face averted, but Crowlith saw his shoulders slump in grief. “I will be here. Watching.”

It was clear that Aziraphale was not happy to give this answer, but the demon didn’t even try to suppress her spark of anger. “Fine. Watch away. You do that. I’ll do your job, then.” This time, she did leave. 

The angel did not try to stop her.

*~oOo~* 

Aziraphale was right about at least one thing. Noah was definitely an interesting guy to talk to. Grumpy, usually drunk, and mad as box of frogs, of course; but without doubt entertaining. He would natter on to Crowlith until the lamps guttered out, rambling about his experiments with crops, about his plans to replace date-palm wine with grapes of all things, about how his sons were worthless bums, about how no one ever appreciated his genius, not until the gods themselves had sent their messenger to vindicate him, and it was all genuinely _hilarious_. Crowlith could listen to him for hours, and did.

Not that Crowlith had expected to spend any time at all with him. Her original plan was simple; sneak through the tunnel with the kids (she had managed to persuade parents to let her take fourteen of them, an enviable success rate for an impromptu temptation, why did she feel so bad about the other three, it wasn’t like there weren’t thousands of children dying out there) and hide them for however many months it took Heaven to do whatever it was they were doing up there.

The first part of the scheme went off without a hitch. The eight girls and six boys, ranging in age from two to thirteen, meekly squirmed through the crumbling dirt at her direction. She hated to think of how bad their situation must have been to render them so obedient. She brought them down to a side cavern that was currently crammed full of voles, lemmings, hamsters, and the like (she figured that if nothing else, the rodents would hide the smell of small grubby humans), miracled up a nest of blankets, and told them to sleep – which, frightened and exhausted, they did. For a few hours, at any rate. When they awoke, Crowlith had conjured a tiny blaze of Hellfire, and instructed it sternly not to escape her improvised hearth. The way they stretched their small fingers toward its warmth convinced her, for a brief moment, that this whole “saving kids” thing was going to be easy.

She had forgotten that humans (especially small ones) needed to eat. Frequently. And had a propensity to get annoyingly squeaky when no meals were forthcoming.

How the Heaven was she supposed to feed her little flock? Crowlith was pretty certain that impaling a gerbil, tearing it into shreds, and spitting it back into their mouths would not go over well, but beyond that she was at a loss. She could always miracle something, but she didn’t know how long she could keep that up, and had no idea what to feed them in the first place. Why hadn’t she paid attention all the times the angel had tried to get her to eat something?5 A long-ago argument tugged at her memory: _milk_! Milk was something that young humans ate, it came from animals like sheep and goats and cows, and she was certain that they had passed a large cave positively stinking of herd animals on their way to this one.

Which is how she found herself standing in small group of very unimpressed goats, trying to figure out how she was supposed to get milk _out_ of any of them. She was about to just pick one and start poking holes into it, when she heard a drily amused voice saying, “Please tell me that you are not the ‘help’ Zira promised to send.”

Crowlith whirled around to see a short, rounded shape leaning against the cave entrance. The demon couldn’t see particularly well in the dark, so snapped up a fingertip of flame, which allowed her to identify the other as a grey-haired woman with a no-nonsense face, who regarded her with arms crossed across her solid chest. “Zira?” Crowlith asked, feeling stupid.

“Handsome fellow. Curly hair. Well-fed, nice robes. Set us up with…” The (nominally) older woman made a wave encompassing their surroundings, “… all this.”

“You mean _Aziraphale_?”

“Said so, didn’t I?” The woman studied the demon, and seemed to make up her mind. “My name’s Naamah, call me Naa. Noe – you’ve heard of Noah, at least, right? – he’s my husband. He’s in charge of communing with the gods, I run everything else.” Her eyes crinkled with good humor. “I just didn’t realize what kind of circus Zira was going to be dumping on me, well, us, the boys are as useless as their father, but their wives are good girls.” She jerked her chin at Crowlith’s flaming fingers. “Are you a goddess?”

“What? No!” Crowlith stammered.6

“Pity,” Naamah sighed. “Could’ve used a goddess right now. Of course, Zira denied it too, and anyone could see he … Is he bedding you, then?”

Crowlith hadn’t known that she _could_ blush. “I’m … I’m just here for the children!” She pointed desperately at the nearest goat. “I came to get them some milk… ”

“Not from _that_ goat, you didn’t,” Naamah picked up a bucket from a heap near the goat pen. “Zira and his strays … He promised me help, and he sends me a blind, let’s call you a priestess, love, and how many kids?”

“Fourteen.” Crowlith watched with fascination as Naamah separated out a different goat with a slap, and reached between its legs and started … squeezing? Pale streams of liquid squirted into the bucket. “Aziraphale told you I was coming here?”

“Didn’t say anything about _you_ , specifically, but said someone, and told me to plan on feeding about three times as many folks.” She picked up the now-foaming bucket again, and nodded at him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be rude, that fire trick of yours will probably come in handy for cooking; and I expect the kids’ll help tend to the animals. So, where’ve you stashed them?” 

And that, apparently, was that.

Not that the next several months were easy. Not by a long chalk. Crowlith was able to admit that she couldn’t have managed if Naamah hadn’t accepted the children and their guardian demon … if she hadn’t been _expecting_ them.

And what did it say about Aziraphale that the angel had never questioned whether said demon was the sort of entity that would immediately go along with his careful plans? And what did it say about _Crowlith_ that he was unquestionably right?

And did Crowlith want to be that sort of being?

Did she want to be the sort of being who enjoyed taking care of a flock of brats? Feeding them, telling them stories, helping them with their tasks, providing warmth and light as they huddled close in their blanket nests at the end of another sunless day? Who took pleasure in joining Sal, Nahl, and Ara (Crowlith never did learn the full names of Naamah’s daughters-in-law, beyond the truncated versions that Naamah preferred) in the endless “women’s work” of cooking, cleaning, and sewing? Who was fascinated to assist Shem, Ham, and Japheth7 as they cared for the astonishing variety of beasts in the caverns beneath the earth?

Crowlith didn’t know. Unlike Aziraphale, she had never spent any significant amount of time immersed in the daily lives of humans; just long enough to accomplish a little corruption and get out. She had always told herself that it was because humans were boring, but now she wondered if that had been just cowardice.8 What would it mean for a demon to become fond of these mayfly creatures? To come to regret adding to their already unbearable store of misery? Humans were simply too complicated, too messy, too stubborn, too endearing…

They were also bloody _annoying_. The forced proximity with no immediate end in sight made every minor personality conflict chafe and itch. Sometimes it was almost irresistible to stoke those irritations and frustrations into full-scale warfare. It would be so simple to drag Noah into full-blown alcoholism and megalomania, ramp Naamah’s terrifying pragmatism into cruel ruthlessness, inflame Sal’s harmless crush on Ham into a ruinous affair. And what she could due to the kids… Crowlith occasionally wondered if the only thing keeping her from turning the underground refuge into a scene of bloody mass murder was just sheer spiteful reluctance to finish off Heaven’s work for them.

After five months and a bit, Crowlith had had enough. The night before, she had nagged at Noah to send the prearranged signal—a common garden snake—wriggling up to see if it were safe yet to leave the caverns, and the old man had flat refused, urging her to “have faith”. Bollocks to faith; she was going to go up there herself, and drag Aziraphale back down with her. Surely he whatever he was _watching_ couldn’t be as important as keeping her from setting this whole bloody zoo on fire.

Shrinking herself down to an inconspicuous chickadee, she fluttered up the access tunnel and squeezed out of the gap she had left in case she needed a back way out.

Everything was worse than she remembered.

The light was all wrong, a sickly greenish purple. The sun looked like a pulsing scar upon the sky. The stench of rotted flesh and decayed vegetation was overwhelming. Crowlith had to quickly set up a perpetual healing miracle, to prevent herself from discorporating from the toxic atmosphere.

There was the bastard angel, still standing with his back to her, exactly where she had left him all those months ago. He was doing nothing, just _standing_ there, with those spectacular, terrifying black wings unfurled to their full extent. Crowlith hopped a little closer…

…and then she felt it.

Demons aren’t empathetic to the degree that angels are. The capacity to innately sense love and joy and hope have been burned clean out. But they did remain attuned to negative emotions (had to, in order to pull off effective temptations), and it was certainly possible to discern the shape and size of a virtue by the edges of what surrounded it.

In other words, Crowlith didn’t feel love; but she could sure feel _heartbreak_.

And heartbreak coruscated around Aziraphale: grief and horror and utter desolation, and almost (but not quite) despair, fiercer and hotter than the collapsing star above them. Crowlith didn’t know how he could possibly bear the weight of it; just observing flattened the demon to the ground, wings spread out, trying to shed the burden of that immense sorrow.

Hours upon hours, the whole length of that impossible day, long past the hour the planet’s rotation mercifully turned them away from the venomous light and the angel’s presence could only be discerned by the golden glimmers trapped in his midnight wings, Aziraphale just stood there. 

Watching.

Witnessing.

Mourning a creation that he had loved beyond the bounds of reason.

And all that time, Crowlith watched _Aziraphale_.

Because she suddenly realized what sort of entity she wanted to be. What sort she had always been, for over a thousand years.

The sort that would never, ever, let her angel suffer alone like this again.

Notes:

1\. Not really. The vectors of Hell (and Heaven) were both metaphysical and metaphorical.  Back

2\. And not of the _Parus major_ variety. Back

3\. And another alcoholic drink, this one made out of fermented grains. Crowlith did not care for it at all—he couldn’t convince himself it was bloody enough—but he did go to some effort to have Aziraphale’s clever lady friend remembered as the goddess she was.  Back

4\. Aziraphale had actually described him as “tall, thin, bright red hair, pale complexion, possibly blind, might be acting a bit nervous”, but professional couriers had their own lingo, and the phrasing often got a bit creative as messages passed from one to the other. Back

5\. To be fair, Crowlith had paid very close attention during those meals. Just not to the food.  Back

6\. Too late she remembered that when someone asks you if you are a god, _you say yes_.  Back

7\. Mostly Shem and Ham. Japheth always gave the impression that he thought himself too sophisticated to shovel shit with the rest of them.  Back

8\. Not that cowardice wasn’t usually an excellent idea. Crowlith had encountered very few situations that couldn’t be best resolved by running away.  Back


	6. O whales and all that moves within the waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“If…” Aziraphaled trailed off thoughtfully. “If I do tell you, will then you answer a question from me honestly?”_
> 
> _“Eh, I don’t lie to you, angel.” Crowley took another drink. “Much. But, yeah, sure. Can’t tell you what I don’t know, but …” He waved his hand over the wasteland before them. “What the Heaven happened here?”_
> 
> An angel frets over a demon’s odd behaviour, and how to go about asking an awkward question.
> 
> Oh, and a (literally) earth-shattering miracle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long for me to beat this *monster* chapter into shape!  
> But at least there is actual plot advancement.  
> As always, thanks to Emma Peelfan for the beta!

Aziraphale decided that he would really have to ask Crowlith—Crow _ley_!—about those strange encounters.

It wasn’t that he was reluctant to speak to the demon. He liked talking to Crowley. He liked Crowley, period, even though he knew that he shouldn’t, and that both he and the demon would be in terrible danger from their respective sides if anyone found out how much he liked Crowley. 

But it couldn’t be denied that the demon didn’t always react well to enquiries of a ... certain nature. Questions about Hell, and his relationship with them. Not to mention that Crowley had been behaving somewhatoddlyon occasion. Ever since the Great Drought, really.

Take that whole business with his name! The demon wasn’t present when Noah and his family (and those fourteen _delightful_ children) had emerged blinking into the newly softened sunlight, and had begun the complicated business of restoring animals and vegetation upon the Earth. Aziraphale was terribly disappointed; he had wanted to thank Crowli- _Crowley_ for taking such a benevolent risk, but had had to wait nearly twenty years for his next run-in with the red-haired demon in rather disreputable establishment in Gomorrah.

“Crowlith!” Aziraphale had exclaimed in delight. “Let me buy you a drink!”

“Angel?” The demon spun around on her bench. She must have had quite a few drinks already, to judge by the bright spots of colour evident on her sharp cheekbones. “And, er, it’s Crowley now.”

“Crowley? You changed it? When… How… Whatever _for_?” First the eyes, then the name… Aziraphale did not like all these sudden changes.

“Yeah, lost a bet with Lil, all right?1 She claimed half my name in forfeit. Dead embarrassing, but can’t break a contract in Hell. Bad form and all that.”

Aziraphale didn’t think he had the right to object, and it wasn’t like demonic names were True Names, anyhow. Not like angelic names, which were assigned (and could only be taken away) by the Almighty Herself. Not even like human names, which (no one knew this better than Aziraphale) were freighted with symbolic import, and would only be altered in moments of great personal significance. If Crowley wanted to change his name for something as shallow as a _bet_ , more power to him, but it was the first indication that the demon was … different.

Then there was the newfound fascination with human culture. Aziraphale hadn’t intended for Crowley’s extended sojourn with Noah’s family to lead to a greater fondness for humans, but he certainly didn’t object to it. Unfortunately, rather than compassionately easing his temptations (not that Crowley had ever done anything so very _wicked_ , or so Aziraphale liked to assure himself, he was mostly chaotic and mischievous) it seemed to have had the opposite effect. As Hell’s designated expert on humanity, the demon chose to use his increased knowledge to become more wildly creative in his work.

And the obsession with human fashion—really! Aziraphale had been content with the same style of robe for two thousand years, perfectly serviceable, but Crowley was constantly adopting extravagant trims, ostentatious jewelry, outrageous lacings… and the less said about that perfectly _scandalous_ skirt-thing he was wearing in Thebes, the better. Not to mention fussing about his hair; the angel hadn’t modified his storm-cloud of curls from the day he was issued a corporation, and he hadn’t received any complaints, had he? But every time Aziraphale encountered Crowley, he seemed to have done something different with his lovely sunset hair (including that one distressing decade during which the demon had _shaved it off completely_ ) and Aziraphale didn’t care for it at all.

Yet for all his eye for frivolities, Crowley never showed any appreciation for the truly impressive human accomplishments. Music made him restless, poetry bored him, and when Aziraphale would try to interest him in the angel’s favourite innovation, the way the clever creatures figured out how to capture their stories in symbols on clay or stone, the demon actually _scoffed_ : “Seriously, angel? It’ll never catch on.” Aziraphale could hardly take offense, however; for all his skepticism, Crowley never failed to indulge the angel when he wanted to expound upon his passion, going so far as to let Aziraphale know when the Hurrians had developed a particularly attractive pictographic script.

And _that_ was the most peculiar change of all. While Crowley had never acted overtly hostile (not for a demon, anyway), he had always been distant. Skittish. Suspicious, even, of every civil overture Aziraphale offered. But ever since the Drought, the demon had responded with a strange air of … fondness. Almost as if they were, well, _friends_.

Which was ridiculous. Unthinkable. There could not possibly be any sort of friendship between an angel and a demon. No matter how delightful the angel found a particular demon’s company.

Perhaps it was Aziraphale’s fault? The angel knew that he had behaved … unconventionally … in soliciting the demon’s assistance in rescuing the children. Yet it had been an unprecedented emergency. And he had gone to such lengths to provide them both with plausible deniability! Crowley certainly hadn’t seemed to mind, but perhaps he had concluded that Aziraphale was now in some way _complicit_ in his Hellish missions? That they had come to some sort of … _arrangement_? Oh, dear. That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all. 

Which meant that trying to … not _interrogate_ , that would be far too rude, just … _query_ Crowley’s knowledge of those … suspicious personages, couldn’t help but be awkward. If only there was some way to bring the topic up naturally! Unfortunately, Aziraphale had never seen one of them when Crowley was about.

The first time was a few hundred years ago, when Aziraphale had accompanied Gabriel and Sandalphon on a visit to a tribal elder. Apparently Heaven had singled out one particular family as essential to the Great Plan, but had encountered a bit of bottleneck in the matter of an heir; and Gabriel, that dreadful gossip, loved nothing more than announcing impending unplanned pregnancies. Aziraphale had gone along mainly to make up a symbolically resonant number, and had slipped off early to offer comfort to the concubine and her child who were doomed to be supplanted. By the time he had reassured them of the Almighty’s continuing regard 3, the other two had gone on ahead to Sodom, and Aziraphale had no interest in such a squalid place.

Besides, he had heard rumours of that dreadful mess in the Valley of Siddim, what with seven or eight rulers all marching their armies against each other. Aziraphale tried very hard not become discouraged with humanity, but sometimes they truly tried his patience. And after things had been going so _nicely_ for the last several centuries! Earth had not become benign, exactly, but it was certainly more hospitable. Plants and animals that had adapted to crueler pre-Drought conditions not only thrived, but positively abounded across the face of the planet. With temperatures more tolerable and rainfall more frequent than once-a-year miracles, humans were able to expand beyond the lands watered by the Great Rivers, and for a brief period seemed happy to live in peace with each other. 

But all too soon, the blessing of “more than just-enough for everyone” transmuted into the curse of “all for me, and none for thee”; particularly strong or clever or lucky individuals claimed power over their fellows as “kings”, and used their wealth to raise armies, and far too soon Aziraphale began to experience the deaths of far too many, far too young, and oh, he was just _sick_ of it all, sometimes. Now these idiot kinglets were about to destroy a lovely fertile valley over copper routes, of all things, just to make themselves more tools for killing. 

So the angel went to see if he could sort it all out without pointless violence. And there, upon a magnificent chestnut mare between the kings of Shinur and Elam, a flash of pale skin and red hair caught his attention. Exceedingly irritated that the demon seemed to have taken his duty to “make trouble” to such unprecedented lengths, Aziraphale actually entertained the notion of a smiting as he wormed his way through the mass of soldiers. As he came closer, he realized that the figure wasn’t Crowley after all; her face, while certainly less dark than Aziraphale’s 4, was more ruddy than pale, and her long braid was the dull colour of dried blood. Yet somehow, as she swept her gaze across the struggling armies, her burning eyes met his own moss-brown, and she _knew_ him. 

Aziraphale was so shocked that he completely forgot his mission. 5 This woman _couldn’t_ be human, not with the way she quite obviously recognized his angelic nature, let alone the aura of supernatural potency that surrounded her. The palpable malignancy of that power certainly ruled out her allegiance to Heaven. Yet somehow she didn’t feel quite demonic either; Aziraphale’s experience of the denizens of Hell was admittedly limited, but there was … a simplicity, one might dare say even a _purity_ , to their evil natures that this entity quite lacked. 

She winked, and tossed off a cheeky two-fingered salute before riding on.

That was the first occasion he saw her; but by no means the last. It was quite some time, however, before he saw anyone else of the same nature.

He was in the great desert west of Egypt, as it happened. He wasn’t very happy with this particular assignment, since it involved him allowing himself to be captured by slavers (and where had humanity come up with the appalling notion of buying and selling each other as _things_? He had been quite cross with Crowley over what he had assumed was a Hellish innovation, until it became clear that the demon was as appalled by the idea as he was) so he could watch over the great-grandson of the Heaven-favoured tribal elder, who happened to be in the same lot of merchandise, two sets of manacles over. 6

The human-flesh peddlers were taking a break at a small oasis when a blatantly wealthy caravan approached, and the slavers made an immediate show of caring for their ‘trade goods’, herding them out of the punishing sun and hastily passing along a pail of water with a dipper. Aziraphale, who surreptitiously blessed the water with healing and strengthening grace before sending it on to his fellows, watched the merchant group idly. Their leader, dismounting from a _black_ camel—something the angel had never seen before—was tall, thin, elegantly dressed, and even darker than Aziraphale. But in contrast to Aziraphale’s lush, vibrant colouring, the general impression was of barren sterility: the blackness of cold ashes, of fields withered before bearing fruit.

One of the slavers approached the rich man with obsequious fawning, offering him sweet dates and soft cheese and first pick of their wares. The dark man dismissed the food with a disgusted wave, and gave the bedraggled slaves a cursory glance, until his dead black eyes caught Aziraphale’s own. He appeared almost comically startled, his eyebrows leaping to the edge of his finely-woven keffiyeh. Once again, the angel experienced the disorienting sensation of being recognized by an … entity, one of uncertain allegiance but undeniable power.

“I have no interest in your merchandise,” the being said in a carrying voice, ostensibly to the slave trader, but Aziraphale felt certain that the words were meant for his ears. “I shall do no business in these lands, not for three and seven years. Then for another seven years I will return; and parents will trade their children for a loaf, and children sell their parents for jarful of oil.”

What ans _odd_ thing to say. Even more peculiar, the man (not a _man_ , but surely not an angel or demon either) looked to Aziraphale as he spoke, as for his _approval_. 

The slaver was evidently nonplussed as well, to judge by the way he extricated himself from the encounter, slightly more speedily than strict courtesy would allow. The disturbing entity paid him no attention. Instead, keeping his eyes on the angel, he touched both hands to his forehead, and … offered a small _bow?_

Aziraphale puzzled over the episode all the way to Egypt. There he ran into Crowley again—the demon had managed to insinuate himself into the household that purchased the angel’s young charge, as his new owner’s _wife_ , of all things—and dealing with the ensuing shenanigans quite drove it from his mind. Until a decade later, when crops all over the region failed and starving families began sending desperate embassies to the former-slave-now-Vizier; but by then it was far too late to ask Crowley about the whole thing.

As it turned out, Aziraphale was more or less stationed in Thebes or Memphis for several hundred years. The only respites he received were unpleasant ones, visiting scenes of massacres and disasters (natural and otherwise), and the dealing with the wearying rush of lives cut short in horrible ways. In contrast, Egypt was a wealthy country, sustained by the reliable Nile, and with (mostly) competent rulers. If Aziraphale caught far more glimpses of that mysterious scarlet entity than he would have preferred, well, there were compensations; he also had plenty of encounters with a more, hmm, _amicable_ ginger-haired being, and couldn’t deny finding them restorative.

Crowley had developed a habit of “accidentally” running into the angel every time he returned from one of his draining sojourns outside of the country, far too frequently to be coincidence. Aziraphale might have suspected the demon of engineering the various catastrophes that demanded his attention, except that they really didn’t feel like Crowley’s style: too indiscriminate and sloppy. He rather thought that the other had caught wind of them through his Hellish contacts, and managed to be on hand to cheer Aziraphale up afterwards. It would have been _useful_ if he had used that inside information to warn the angel in advance, so some of the carnage might be averted, but Aziraphale never mentioned it.

Because, in truth, the demon _did_ cheer him up. Their impromptu encounters nearly always led to a delightful evening drinking and eating 7 and sharing what Crowley sarcastically termed ‘The Deeds of the Day’: accounts of temptations and blessings, accomplished and fumbled, much more candid than their official reports. Crowley—who by the nature of his assignments moved in far more prestigious social circles than the angel—would regale him with the latest palace gossip, while Aziraphale would counter with inspiring stories about the cleverness and strength of those he was charged to guard and protect.

Lately, however, there were less of the latter to offer. Slavery had always been endemic in Egyptian society, but the treatment of the enslaved had become appalling under the last few reigns. There was that ghastly massacre of the newborn boys, for instance; Aziraphale’s diversion to a safe refuge of one baby cast into the river hardly made up for the remaining slaughtered innocents. And now that same rescued infant had returned as an adult, determined to liberate his people; Heaven had taken an interest, and things had gone from bad to worse. Rumours of an imminent major turning point in the Great Plan had caused the entire city to overflow with angelic tourists, and there was no safe place for Aziraphale to meet up with Crowley and commiserate about how _awful_ it all had become.

Not that the Principality blamed the human activist. His cause was certainly righteous; and while rather stern, he displayed a commitment to justice and fairness, as well as a devotion to the Almighty that combined reverence and familiarity in a way that Aziraphale hadn’t seen Below since … oh, before the War, really. No, it was the _means_ that Heaven had adopted! At first, they weren’t so bad: turning the fellow’s staff into an ibis (leading to a raucous feathery-scuffle in the palace) had been genuinely amusing, as had the infestation of lizards and jerboas. While drying up the Nile had been _terrifying,_ it was also gratifyingly impressive, and it was only for a few days, anyways. Assaults upon crops and cattle, however, hardly seemed fair; and eliminating the blessed relief of the night’s cool darkness was just cruel. 

Aziraphale understood the arguments for collective responsibility, and the harms of implicitly supporting an unjust system; but when one came right down to it, it wasn’t those in power who were suffering from such showy miracles, but the poorer Egyptians, scarcely better off than the slaves. It was some comfort that their rebellious leader seemed as genuinely grieved by the indiscriminate pain as the angel.

This particular night Aziraphale felt compelled to prowl tense city streets practically abandoned in the eerie midnight glow. He didn’t quite know what he was looking for, exactly. Nevertheless, he realized that he had found it when his attention was captured by a slight androgynous figure, pale as any demon, but with a sickly livid cast to zir complexion. As zie gave the angel a swift nod, the aura of strange, unfathomable power was horridly familiar. Still, when zie waved zir arm in an impatient ‘ _come along, already_ ’ gesture, Aziraphale followed without thinking, unconsciously unfurling his wings.

When the livid figure melted through the door of the first house on a narrow street, Aziraphale wondered if he was expected to enter as well. He heard a wail within, and the unmistakable sensation of a life cut short before it had a fair chance to begin swept through him.

 _Oh, dear Lord. Please, no._ He was not surprised that his unspoken prayer was disregarded.

Throughout the entire night, the silent entity drifted into house after house (sometimes briefly examining the lintel, although Aziraphale hardly understood what zie could be looking for). A gasping sob would swiftly follow, then the ending: all male, far too many still young and innocent. At least the deaths were relatively painless—as if that were a _mercy_ , when there were so _many_. No dwelling was spared: not the ramshackle apartments of the poor, nor the sturdy homes of merchants and artisans, nor yet the spacious villas of nobility. Not even the alabaster palace, whose broad flat steps Aziraphale wearily dragged himself up as the cruel sun rose pink and gold in what should have been a night-soft sky, and howling and screaming echoed through all the streets through which they had passed those endless hours.

Except the slave quarters on the outskirts, the only area that had seen the blessed relief of dark …

… where even now a surging, restless crowd was streaming away from the city, following after an exultant figure, whose voice an angel’s ear could detect proclaiming, ‘ _free, we’re free, we have permission to leave at last_ ’…

… yet with an agonized exhaustion strangling his bones like a garrote, Aziraphale knew that it _wasn’t over._

Because he knew humans too well. Shock and grief would transmute all too soon to rage, and a desire for vengeance.

And Aziraphale didn’t think he could process any more deaths today.

*~oOo~*

It more than twenty-four hours later, and Aziraphale still sat, perilously close to _slumping_ , on the Egyptian side of the Red Desert. He heard the slough of taloned feet approach, and then the dusty _fwomp_ of someone settling by his left, but didn’t look over.

“So, that was a Thing, all right,” Crowley commented neutrally. “Quite the show, I hear. Sorry I missed it.”

“Don’t be,” the angel muttered. “You wouldn’t have liked it at all.” 

The demon blew out a sigh, then nudged Aziraphale’s hand with a full wineskin. “Here. Fell off the back of a chariot.” The other accepted and they passed the skin back and forth in silence for a while. “So. Tell me, then.”

“If…” Aziraphale trailed off thoughtfully. “If I do, will you then answer a question honestly?”

“Eh, I don’t lie to you, angel.” Crowley took another drink. “Much. But, yeah, sure. Can’t tell you what I don’t know, but …” He waved his hand over the wasteland before them. “What the _Heaven_ happened here?” 

So the angel told him: how the escaped slaves camped on the edge of the Red Desert, guarded by an angel in the form of a whirling pillar of water and cloud. 8 How they argued with their leader against entering the poisonous flats, toxic with cinnabar and minium. How the calamitous appearance of the king’s army, with its hundreds of chariots and thousands of soldiers, threw the slaves into a panic, caught between slow agonizing death and sudden massacre. How the slave leader looked down to Heaven, then stretched out his staff… and the desert heaved and juddered and _cracked_ , revealing a jagged chasm that snaked through the wasteland to the horizon. How with a roar and mighty foaming splash, the pillar of water _collapsed_ into the gap, and the desperate slaves threw themselves into the torrent, climbing into their carts, clinging to the whales and dolphins that appeared in the rushing waters. How the Egyptian soldiers, frozen and slack-jawed, watched in terror as their prey vanished with the waters, leaving only the churned vermillion mud. How their vengeance-crazed ruler screamed and threatened until they reluctantly poured into the empty rift in pursuit; but the wet clay clogged their chariot wheels, and sucked at their feet, trapping them in place. How with a shattering clap louder than thunder, the sides of the canyon _slammed_ back together, burying the helpless pride of Egypt beneath tons of ruined earth.

“ _Bless_ ,” Crowley swore fervently. “You can always count on Downstairs for _drama_.” He glared at the wineskin until it refilled itself, and drank deeply.

“It was … self-defense, I suppose. And part of the Great Plan.” Aziraphale kept watching the empty desert. “I am … quite certain.”

The demon looked like he had any number of responses to that, but chose not to offer up any of them. After a while, he said, “So… I owe you an answer?”

“Oh. Yes.” The angel shook his head slightly. “Right. Well… please don’t take offense at this, Crowley, I know that you are Hell’s … _principal_ agent on Earth, but is there … do you know … I mean … what I was wondering, was … have your people sent any _new_ operatives down here, who might … be looking for me?”

“I hope not-t-t.” Crowley laughed with a bitter, clacking sound. “If they had-d, Aziraphale, you’d _know_ it. Mostly because you’d be dead and back Below.” 

“I am not _entirely_ incapable—” the principality began indignantly.

“Why’d you ask, anyhow?”

Relieved that Crowley didn’t seem upset, Aziraphale explained about the strange entities. “They certainly are not human, Crowley! And they can’t be of Heaven, because their influence seems entirely destructive. 9 Yet they knew who, or at least _what_ I am.”

At first, the demon seemed as confused as the angel had been, but then recognition spread across his mobile face. “Wait. You said red, black, and white, right?” Crowley whuffed. “There you go. That’s your answer.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“ _You_ know. The Riders,” Crowley said impatiently. “Three of ‘em, anyhow. You didn’t see the Fourth, did you?”

“The fourth what? And only two of them were riding anything.” The angel shook his head. “Crowley, dearest, I’m afraid I don’t have the slightest idea—”

“ _What_ did you call me?”

“—what you are talking about.” The angel looked even more puzzled. “Crowley? That’s still your name, correct? You haven’t gone and changed it again?”

“No, no, never mind.” Crowley peered intently. “D’you mean you don’t know about the Four Riders? Seriously?” He laughed again, but it seemed to be with genuine amusement this time. “And you’re the one who told _me_ , all those centuries ago. Before Noah and all that.”

“I’m afraid I don’t …”

“You told me,” Crowley said, “that the reason you loved humans was the stories they told. Their imaginations. You called it ‘ _a human miracle_ ’. Well. That’s what the Four of them are. Bloody human miracles.”

Aziraphale radiated incomprehension.

Crowley waved a hand. “Look. Humans imagine things, right? And sometimes they can, I dunno, pour all the power of that collective belief into something, until it becomes, well, real?”

“Well, yes. Of course. But you’re talking about _faith_.” Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Has the power to move mountains, so they say.”

“Dunno ‘bout that. Because humans, most humans, don’t spend a lot of time thinking about mountain removal. What they care about, what they _believe_ in, is the stuff that scares them. Scares them so bad it becomes… manifest. Y’know. War. Famine.” He gestured back towards the Egyptian capital city. “Plague.”

“But surely …” the angel gasped. “That’s horrible, Crowley! Why don’t they make manifest, I don’t know … kindness? Joy? Love?”

Crowley grinned at him, in a way that _might_ have been sarcastic. “Whatever for, angel? You’re already _here_.” The grin abruptly slid off his face. “Just stay out of their way, Aziraphale. Bad news, that’s what they are. And their boss … the Fourth one … he’s the worst. Tall. Skinny. Paler’n me, they say. I mean, _I’ve_ never seen him. But my lot,” he jabbed a thumb upwards. “He scares the _crap_ out of them, angel. And even in Heaven … I hear things, y’know. They won’t even speak his _name_.”

Aziraphale felt dreadfully ignorant. Perhaps he should have paid closer attention to Gabriel’s briefings, instead of tuning him out and thinking about the latest in epic poetry. “But, Crowley. They knew me. Why?”

“Dunno.” The demon shrugged. “Prob’ly because they’re … they’re like free-lancers, yeah? They don’t belong to Hell _or_ Heaven, but they’ll … contract out, like, to either. But if all Four of ‘em should get together, that’s it. That’ll be the end, right enough.”

“Of me, you mean?”

Crowley whipped around. “No, Aziraphale. Of everyone. Of every _thing_.”

“Oh. _Oh_. I see.” Aziraphale hugged his knees. “Is … is there any of that wine left?”

“Maybe.” Crowley made sure of it. “But I’d’ve thought you’d be heading …” He flapped a hand towards the western horizon. “Y’know. Over the desert. I should think your people will be having quite the party about now. Singing, dancing… timbrel and drum, songs of praises, all that noise. You like that sort of thing, right?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” sighed the angel. “I’m not really in the mood just now.” He still felt exhausted. So many deaths … It was more comforting, somehow, to sit and watch the empty desert. Here, in the company of a demon. _This_ demon, anyways. And that was definitely not a safe way to think. “You might go, if you wish. I expect that with all the revelry, there will be plenty of opportunities for temptations and the like.”

“Seriously, angel?” Crowley snorted. “What do you expect me to do? Suggest they make a gigantic golden, I dunno, _duck_ and start worshipping it?”

Aziraphale laughed softly. “You’re right. That would be ridiculous.”

“’Sides,” the demon said more grimly. “Rumour has it that any day now Prophet Boy is going to be meeting with … with _Her_ on top of a mountain nearby. Don’t want to risk getting anywhere near that.”

“The Almighty is going to …speak to a human?” Aziraphale’s stomach clenched. “Are you _sure_?”

“That’s the scuttlebutt, yeah.” Crowley shrugged. “How would I know? Don’t you? I mean,” He folded his hands in an exaggerated fashion, and gazed down with an expression of sarcastic piety. “Communing with the Almighty. Isn’t that what angels _do_?”

“No.” Aziraphale answered. “I don’t. I have no idea about other angels, but … I suspect not. Not for a long time.”

“Oh.” The demon looked embarrassed, then … sad? That couldn’t be right. “I’m … sorry. I, er … didn’t know.”

“Heaven wouldn’t exactly advertise it now, would they?” the angel responded tightly. He sighed. “It’s … all right. Truly. I mean… it’s my _Name_ , after all. I should have … expected.” He looked at his hands, now clasped in his lap. “It is just … difficult, sometimes.”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley spoke very gently.

“Yes. _The Silence of God_.” He looked over, with a small smile. “She gave me an additional Name, you know. That is the last thing She ever said to me, actually. Right after … Eden, and all that. She … named me Her Helper. With… _for_ the humans.” 

“Ah,” the demon said. “That’s … nice, then, yeah?” He looked almost as awkward as he sounded.

Aziraphale appreciated the effort. It was _kind_ , to be honest; though he certainly wouldn’t embarrass Crowley by saying so. “It is. And I have every intention of living up to that.”

“All right, then.” Crowley didn’t say anything more.

And truly, there wasn’t much more to be said.

Notes:

1\. This was, strictly speaking, perfectly true. The demon Lilei, known if not exactly _respected_ throughout the nine circles of Hell for her expertise in the sins of Lust, had borne a grudge ever since the erstwhile Crowlith had one-upped her by successfully tempting Eve while Lil was still trying to get Adam to notice the differences between male and female plumbing. That Crowlith had set the stakes himself, then had gone on deliberately to lose2 was none of the angel’s business.  Back

2\. It was a particularly stupid bet, involving Dagon, Beelzebub, and a goose. Crowley still couldn’t believe that Lil _almost_ didn’t pick the goose. Back

3\. After all, if the Archangels continued to make a habit of speaking on the Lord’s behalf when threatening Her wrath, surely Aziraphale wouldn’t be too far out of line in commending Her mercy.  Back

4\. Aziraphale wasn’t at all vain about his corporation. After all, when he compared his own mahogany complexion to Michael’s stunning indigo or Gabriel’s intense ultraviolet, he knew he looked very plain by angelic standards. He was grateful, however, that his very ordinariness allowed him to be more comforting and approachable to humans. Back

5\. Which was fortunate. It turned out that the aforementioned tribal elder was intended to get involved in this tawdry little conflict, and Heaven would have been quite cross with Aziraphale if he had put an end to it prematurely.  Back

6\. And honestly, being a member of Heaven’s Favourite Family clearly was _not_ all that it was cracked up to be.  Back

7\. Aziraphale did most of the eating, to be sure; but there was one memorable night when the angel was served the most exquisite shredded lamb stewed with honey and dates. Greatly daring, he impaled a morsel of meat on the tip of his knife and offered it to his dinner companion. Crowley stared at it for several minutes, until the embarrassed angel almost apologized; but without a word, the demon leaned forward and _took_ it.  Back

8\. “An angel, eh? Anyone I know?” “Doubt it … oh, you meant … No, I do believe that was Afbriel, _I_ certainly would not have put up with all that spinning.”  Back

9\. After the past few days, that wasn’t as convincing an argument as it might have been, but Crowley chose not to call him on it.  Back


	7. Frost and cold, ice and sleet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You’re supposed to be humanity’s helper. How does any of this help?”_
> 
> Everybody hates the Fourteenth Century.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't given up on this AU yet, but argggh, this chapter. It's important, but I couldn't seem to get it right. I finally just threw it up here.  
> WARNING: There is a LOT of horrible death in this chapter. I tried not to be graphic, but that's sort of the point of it. There is one section, describing the plague in Florence, which I drew directly from contemporary sources. I tried to be sensitive, but it's not ... nice. And SPOILER TW: Crowley kills someone. With debatable justification (it IS debated) but if you don't feel comfortable reading any of that, I've marked out the relevant portion with ** .

Crowley was not a happy demon.

Of all the centuries he has lived through since Time was created – and it’s been over fifty and counting – this one had to be his least favourite. 

Admittedly, it had competition: the century of the Great Drought was overall pretty good, but the scale of that catastrophe dragged it down in the rankings. The first century CE was just depressing from the get-go, although it was more a constant low-grade misery than anything spectacularly terrible. The sixth century, what with the plagues and the earthquakes, was bloody awful, but on the plus side it also included his first trip to China, where he picked up an ongoing interest in breeding Amur koi. And then there was the tenth century, when Hell sent him to the dreary, damp, _freezing_ British Isles, to muck up the idealistic ambitions of some overblown warlord … but that’s also when he managed _finally_ to get Aziraphale interested in some sort of Arrangement (although it would take forever for him formally agree), which had to be some sort of credit. 

So far, he had yet to find one single thing he liked about the fucking fourteenth century.

Well, aside from that his angel existed within it. But considering what this century was _doing_ to Aziraphale, that didn’t really count.

It was common knowledge that demons don’t, _can’t_ , love. All such connection to virtue and grace were burned from their essences as they were vomited forth from Heaven. Crowley knew it as well as anyone.

But he was a demon, and a clever demon at that, and that meant he was a cheat, a thief, and a liar. So he cheated, and stole some of the radiant overflow of love that poured forth from his angel; then he lied to himself, and pretended that it was his own to give back. He had been doing it for so long that he didn’t really remember when it began. Possibly one evening in an Egyptian tavern, and the generous, non-judgmental accommodation of his disgusting feeding habits. Maybe another time, beneath a late-summer date tree, with the imaginative solution to his demonic thirst, and the open delight in his impromptu courting song. It might have gone all the way back to a moment atop the walls of Eden, and the perplexing, heartfelt apology from a representative of Heaven for sensibly assuming his opposite-in-every-way might be intrinsically evil.

It didn’t matter. Crowley had been fiercely _imagining_ his love for Aziraphale for so long that it had become second nature, more automatic and essential to his continued existence than breath or a beating heart. However scorching the internal fires that seared the underside of his skin, he could always retreat to that secret refuge of sweet cool darkness at his core, which guarded memories of soft words, gentle smiles, and wings spun from the night sky. 

He didn’t mind that there was no possibility of his love being reciprocated. No thief should expect a reward for returning stolen goods, after all. It would be _wrong_ , even, for the only angel worthy of the name to dirty himself by caring for a wretched, burnt, broken thing like Crowley. He was more than content1, he was grateful and _astonished_ that Aziraphale always greeted him with apparent fondness, permitted him to act almost as if they were friends, allowed himself to be wheedled into accepting the awkward gifts and favours that Crowley’s pilfered love yearned clumsily to provide.

No, what _hurt_ is how little good any of it seemed to do. Every time they ran into each other (and Crowley didn’t dare to make their encounters more frequent than every few decades; Aziraphale might be self-indulgent and a bit naïve, but he was also far from stupid) the angel just seemed more and more … tired. The Arrangement helped a bit, Crowley believed; he used every skill he had at cheating to take on the more onerous Heavenly assignments and pass along only the most lightweight temptations. Taking Aziraphale out for good food, entertaining conversation, and quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol helped even more—and if that happened to coincide with a demon’s most fervent desires, well, there were certain perks to any well-crafted temptation.

Aziraphale, for the most part, _loved_ performing blessings. That much was obvious to any fool; even the undeserving humans who would flock about his presence could see it. Whenever the angel could make someone’s day better—healing the sick, comforting the sorrowful, encouraging the anxious, just being _himself_ at the lonely—the sweet effervescence of joy and safety that surrounded him would bubble and froth until Crowley would have to go stick his head in a horse trough, just to keep himself from spontaneously combusting. _That_ kind of assignment was never the problem.

No, it was the _other_ missions. The ones that Aziraphale would never let the demon take on for him. The ones that more often than not involved one of those sodding Riders, no matter how many times Crowley warned the idiot angel to stay the Heaven _away_ from them. And the demon couldn’t even understand _why_. 

He would sneak after Aziraphale, sometimes, and the angel never snapped up the tiniest miracle to make things better. He wouldn’t do a blessed _thing_ , except stand there and watch, and Crowley hated Heaven for the way they would torture his angel, forcing him to witness the vicious unfolding of their Great Pustulent Plan and forbid him to interfere. Then Aziraphale would return with new faint lines etched around his pretty garden-shadowed eyes, and Crowley would flutter and whistle and preen and dangle shiny objects and all but perform a bloody mating dance just to distract him, just to get his angel to dredge up a soft sad smile. 

Plenty of times, he'd tried to ask Aziraphale about what Heaven was doing to him. But the angel always demurred or defended; then Crowley would get so frustrated and furious that he’d pick a fight, and both of them would stomp off in separate directions, and it would be another half-century before Crowley could come up with an excuse to run into him again.2

Take that time in Rome.3 When he heard Aziraphale’s greeting, Crowley hastily donned those new smoked lenses he had been wanting to try out; not only would they help disguise his avian eyes from the humans, but he hoped that they could also hide his euphoria at the angel’s arrival. After all, Crowley had had a terrible month—what with all the Julio-Claudian antics, he’d had his hands full trying to keep the Empire from collapsing hundreds of years ahead of schedule4—and he felt a certain demonic responsibility to take it out on someone else.

And he had been able to maintain that sour aspect for … oh, maybe ten minutes. Almost as long as it took them to be comfortable ensconced in adjoining couches, and for Crowley to order more wine and glare suspiciously at the platter of slimy little globules that Aziraphale assured him were “simply remarkable, dear boy!”

“What is _remarkable_ ,” Crowley abruptly changed the subject, “is how your side pulled off that stunt eight years ago.” At the angel’s blank look, he expanded, “Y’know. Golgotha. That Yeshua fellow. Execution that didn’t stick?” It had certainly seemed real enough at the time, seeing the earnest young rabbi brutally beaten, then staked out on the shore for the incoming tide to drown by inches (or, if he was among the lucky ones, to bleed to death first in the stinging surf). Crowley didn’t know the man well, but he had rather liked what he heard; and the special gift the Romans had, of turning the few pleasant things on this half-finished, malevolent pratfall of a planet into instruments of torture, had never seemed crueler. “Great prank on Heaven’s part, going all backsies on that one. Pity you couldn’t do it more often.”

“It … wasn’t like that.” Aziraphale seemed fascinated by the inside of his cup.

“Of course not. It never is,” the demon mocked.

“No, truly! It was a complete _shock_ , you have no idea!” The angel winced and hunched his shoulders, as if recalling a stabbing pain. “It’s not supposed to work … _backwards_ , like that. I can’t imagine, if there were a large number of them…”

“Yeah. Wouldn’t want any more humans inconveniencing your lot by, dunno, _not dying_ …” Which was, admittedly not the most sympathetic way to put it, and he supposed that he couldn’t blame Aziraphale for abruptly recalling an urgent appointment elsewhere with some prisoners or other.

So, yeah, that hadn’t gone well.

*~oOo~*

Then there was Sack of Jerusalem, at the tail end of the eleventh century. Crowley wasn’t even supposed to be there. He was busy in Central America, laying the groundwork for a complicated scheme that probably wouldn’t pay off for centuries yet, when he received the “Bad Job” commendation from Above for instigating the First Crusade, and he’d thought he’d better fly over and see what it was all about.

By the time he made it to the so-called City of Peace, the siege and subsequent massacre were over. He spied Aziraphale sitting atop the Western Wall. His twilight-blue surcoat was torn and dirty (at least Crowley _hoped_ it was dirt, but he had a sinking feeling that it probably wasn’t), mail glinting in the brutal afternoon sun. At least he wasn’t standing, wings out, bloody _watching_ , _that_ never boded well; but to see his prim, fastidious angel almost slumping in exhaustion, elbows on knees and fists beneath his chin, made the demon’s heart squeeze painfully.

Crowley alit on the street below, near the charred ruins of what looked like a synagogue. He took on a human shape and chucked a pebble several yards up. “Oi! Angel!” He didn’t _mean_ for the rock to bounce off Aziraphale’s shoulder, but he’d been flying for days, and his arms were tired.

Aziraphale blinked slowly, then a smile like a springtime shower misted across his face. He sat up a little straighter, and patted the wall to his left.

Crowley’s heart clenched even tighter, but for a different reason. “Don’t be daft,” he called again, firmly suppressing any hint of fondness to his voice. “I can’t go up there, it’s consecrated ground.” 

A moment later, a slightly embarrassed angel was standing beside him. “My apologies, dear boy. Not that it isn’t always a pleasure to see you, but whatever are you doing here?” 

“Eh, you know.” Crowley looked around at the wreckage of what had been a beautiful plaza. Not too far off he could hear the shouting of soldiers, but otherwise any surviving civilians must be indoors, sleeping through the hottest part of the day. “Normally I’d say ‘ _spreading chaos and foment_ ’ and whatnot, but given the state of the place, it’s hardly worth the trouble. I doubt anybody’d notice.”

The chuckle to his right sounded a little strained, but it was genuine, causing all of Crowley’s tiredness to fall away. “Wiley old shrike. Raymond’s headquarters are down this way, I’m sure I can commandeer us some wine and olives, maybe a loaf or two. It’s not much, but…”

“Didn’t come here for the cuisine, angel. Came for”— _the company_ —“information. What’ve your lot been playing at now?” 

“Ah, well …” Aziraphale sighed, as he gave the demon’s sleeve a companionable tug to guide him down the narrow twisting street. “The whole notion of crusading didn’t sound like the worst idea when the memos first came up from Heaven. Rather silly, of course, using military force to squabble over suzerainty of certain plots of land, as if any human religious institution had unique claim to the Almighty, and all of Creation not equally blessed by Her love…”

“ _Now_ you tell me, angel!” Crowley playfully hopped about on the cobbles, as if they were burning his feet. “Too bad ‘m too tired to fly.”

“Ridiculous demon,” Aziraphale patted Crowley’s cheek affectionately, almost like a reward for his clowning.5 “Anyways, I thought that it might be better for the knights to join forces in a, er, noble cause, rather than to keep fighting among themselves. And the vows they took were quite, ah, _idealistic_. But, well, humans, you know…” he sighed.

“Oh, believe me, I _know_ , angel,” the demon said bitterly. “Pretty much the secret to my whole career, that. So, how long before it all went pear-shaped?”

“Things were not so _very_ bad, until the siege of Antioch. And then, well, Baldwin and Raymond and the others all quarreled over the next step, then some of the knights became impatient, and, and the Red and the Black entities _both_ showed up, and—”

“Wait, War and Famine… how many times have I warned you, angel…”

“It’s only to be expected, during a siege. But yes, things got a little out of hand…”

“Out of hand? Aziraphale, just _look_ at these stones, the streets are _stained with blood_!”

“I did what I could!” the angel cried in anguish. “I did get most of the Jewish and Christian inhabitants out. I negotiated for hostage status for the Emir and his family. I …”

“Oh, very nice, wouldn’t want the _nobility_ to get all killed and whatnot, that’s for the ordinary people!” Crowley snapped. “But otherwise you just _watched_ , I’ll wager, just like you _always_ do, all so Heaven can snatch down some more bloody pawns!”

“Pawns?” Aziraphale stopped in the middle of the street. “Crowley, what on Earth do you mean?”

“You know! Collecting souls! Hell, Heaven!” Crowley waved up, then down. “Racking points before the big finish!”

“Collecting sou- you can’t mean _human_ … where did you get such a preposterous notion?” The angel looked truly perplexed.

Crowley felt a little defensive, now. “I may have listened to a sermon or two, all right?”

“Oh, good Lord.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I simply do not understand how people keep dreaming up that ridiculous notion. There are no human souls in Heaven or Hell. What would we do with them all? Where would we even _put_ them? Adrift on little islands in the Sea of Grace, I don’t know, playing _harps_ or something? Have _you_ ever seen a human soul in Hell?”

“S’not like I’m up there any more than I have to,” the demon muttered.

“Still, you should know better. _They_ should know better. We have made it quite clear in the pertinent revelations—well, the _authorized_ prophecies, that is, don’t think that I don’t know what you’re up to with the Toltecs, dear boy—”

“Oi! _My_ side didn’t write Adso’s letters, did we?”

Aziraphale might have looked abashed at that. “Still, it is very explicitly stated that all judgment of mortals is the sole purview of the Almighty, and that She shan’t get around to that until Her own very good time. Heaven has no interest in … _accumulating_ souls.”

And now the demon felt a bit of an idiot, but that just made him more angry. “So what _is_ your game, then? Seems like every time I see you, it’s at the site of another bloody massacre or something, and you _never_ do anything about it.”

“I might very well say the same of you, might I not?”

“M a _demon_ ,” Crowley gritted out. “ _Supposed_ to hang about mayhem and disaster. You know that.”

“And likewise for me. I _have_ explained it to you, Crowley.” The angel sighed unhappily. “It is not my choice to do so. It is my purpose _._ ”

“You _said_ ,” the demon countered through clenched teeth, “that you’re supposed to be humanity’s helper. How does any of this _help_?”

“Someone has to witness,” Aziraphale said simply. “And what do _you_ care, you, you foul fiend? You don’t even _like_ humanity!”

 _I **do**!_ Crowley thought. But he could hardly say that, could he? Not like anyone would believe him, anyways. So he spun on his heel and stalked off instead.

When would he ever learn to _stop asking questions?_

*~oOo~*

Of course they had made up. Or, not so much “made up” as “pretended that it never happened.” Which was fine with Crowley. She had long ago accepted that her controlling priority on Earth was “make things easier for Aziraphale”, and she would do whatever was necessary (lie to Hell, lie to the angel, lie to herself) to support that mission.

But this … this was unbearable. Un-fix-able.

And to think it was only _one_ Rider, this time. Pestilence had really outdone zirself with this one.6

Firenze was a beautiful city. Had always been, but really took off under the commune. Prosperity in trade had financed not only the construction of the Duomo and Santa Croce, but also inspired the turbulent politics, restless intellectual ferment, and impeccable sense of style that exactly suited the demon’s tastes.

But not now.

**

Now the city stank of illness and death.

Bodies of the dead, and of the not-yet-dead, stacked like cordwood for burning on carts in the somnolent streets. On the portals of churches that had run out of room to receive them. In the alleys and public squares where they had been dumped by family members made callous by terror and grief. 

Not even the dogs running feral would touch those bodies, swollen and lumpy and sallow-spotted by the White Death. Only the slinking rats and the buzzing swarms of flies kept them company.

And, of course, the carrion birds. Not always bothering to wait before pecking at hair, eyes, any other tasty soft bits. Ravens, kites, vultures… and Crowley.

She stalked among bodies baking in the morning heat, shrouded in her white habit and veil, looking for those who still breathed. Or gasped, rather; great, hacking, stuttering coughs, drooling bright blood-flecked spit. Too far gone to have even a chance of recovery, but doomed to hours or perhaps days of tortured misery, festering and suffering and alone under the pitiless sun.

She couldn’t give them healing. She was a _demon_ ; demons didn’t (couldn’t? she didn’t really know, never dared to try) heal. But she could give release. She could do that much.

She heard a tell-tale rattle of breath. She turned the body over with gentle hands, and found herself looking at a woman, no, a girl, a _child_ , eyes huge and black in a pallid face. Cracked, bruised lips whispering, “ _Pietà. Per favore._ ”

The demon knew that the words were addressed to ears other than hers. Well, Heaven wasn’t listening; she would have to do. “ _Sii in pace, figlia mia_.” She placed the tip of her knife at the base of the skull and pressed up. The child’s eyes went blank.

**

“CROWLEY, _STOP_.”

Crowley jerked upright in surprise. She _knew_ that voice, she would know that voice anywhere, but she’d never heard it like that before: deep, resonant, a great iron bell echoing through her hollow bones.

“YOU STOP THAT _RIGHT NOW_ , DO YOU HEAR ME?”

“Angel?” Crowley looked around and up. She spied Aziraphale far across the city, atop the jutting upraised finger of the Palazzo della Signoria. Too far away to see his face. Should’ve been too far away to be recognized, too far away to hear his voice, but _bloody Heaven_ , he had those wings out, probably those _eyes_ out, _watching_ again, _fuck_...

Fabric fluttered around her as she folded herself into avian form without thinking. She had never heard him sound so ... not _angry_ , but so ... so _done_. She could flee; in this body she could fly faster than any angel. Aziraphale wouldn’t leave his mission to pursue.

Crowley never even considered it. Within minutes she alit behind him on the tower. By the time she shifted back to woman-shape and circled around, he had put his terrifying wings away and turned to face her with just the one pair of deceptively human eyes, stormclouds roiling in their depths. 

“Hullo, angel, fancy meeting you here. Peckish for crostini, were you?”

“Don’t you _dare_.” 

Were those _tears_? “Dare anything, Aziraphale. That’s m’job.”

“Certainly not! Hell couldn’t possibly have sent you down here to commit petty murder. What would be the point?”

“What’s the point of _any_ of this?” Crowley stretched out her arms and spun in a circle, encompassing the whole of the city, the whole of Italy, the whole of the Eurasian continent. “How many deaths will it take to sate Heaven’s appetite for misery? Maybe if I stuff enough bodies down Her ravenous maw...”

“You cannot say such things!” The angel recoiled, as if the demon had spat hellfire instead of words. “You cannot ... _think_ such things.”

“Can’t I?” Crowley bared sharp white teeth.

“It was _your_ choice to kill them! Eighteen, no, nineteen. _Innocents._ ” Aziraphale’s voice was anguished.

“How... You ...” The demon hunched her shoulders. “They were good as dead anyway, Aziraphale. I just ... spared them a few hours of suffering.”

“That isn’t your call to make, Crowley! This is what it _means_ , to be mortal. To be human. To know all of life; to know good _and_ evil.”

“Oh, don’t you dare throw that in my face!” Crowley would always pick feeling anger over guilt. “If it’s all _my_ bloody fault, than maybe it’s up to me to, to, show them the pity your lot never will!”

“And where does it _end_ , then?” Aziraphale was shouting back. “Today, you choose to cull the sick. What will you choose for them tomorrow? Which lives will _you_ decide are no longer worth living? The crippled? The poor? The sad? The ugly? All humans are doomed to die anyway, you told me once, so why not strangle them _all_ in the crib?”

“Of _course_ that’s what I’d do, I’m a demon, right?” Crowley took every advantage of her extra few inches to snarl down at the angel. “You don’t want to leave them to my kind of mercy? Then why don’t you _heal_ them, O Help from God!”

“I ... can’t.” And just like that, Aziraphale collapsed. Crowley had to grab the collar of his cetacean-blue tunic to keep him from toppling over the crenellations of the tower. To her horror, the angel huddled in a heap of misery, face buried in his hands, rocking slightly. “Crowley, I _can’t_. It’s all I can do, just to ... there are so many, so _many_...”

“Hey. Hey, angel. D-d-on’t-t...” Crowley perched beside him, hands awkwardly fluttering above his shoulders. “You shouldn’t listen t-to some shite d-demon tell you your own business, right?”

“So _many_ deaths. Hundreds. Thousands. Every day.” Aziraphale sobbed. “And I am so _tired_. I don’t know how much longer I can ... hold them all. And then ... and then ... to feel _you_ there, Crowley, in their deaths... I just _can’t_.”

The demon’s restless movements stilled. _What_. “Feel ... _me_ ... deaths?” _What_ what _WHAT_.

“I am so very sorry, my dear. I shouldn’t ... I know that you _meant_ well. Even though you really ought not ... but I shouldn’t take it out on you. It was just too much.” The angel lifted his head, sniffed alarmingly, and then made Crowley feel even worse by giving her a watery smile. “I shall be fine. I’ve been doing this ever so long, you’d think... It was just a bit of a shock, that’s all.”

She waved the apology aside. “You ... _felt_ their deaths?”

“Of course.” Aziraphale looked puzzled. “I’ve told you, many times. That I am there to—”

“To _witness_ , that’s what you always say,” Crowley interrupted. “I thought you meant that, you know, you just _watched_.”

“I _do_ watch, inasmuch as I can!” Aziraphale seemed offended. “But there are so _many_ , and in so many _places_ , even I wouldn’t have enough eyes!”

“So ... you feel them. Human deaths. All human deaths?” the demon managed to croak. “Um, _ever_?”

“Well, yes. So far, at least.” Aziraphale blinked in mild surprise.

“But _WHY_?” The angel opened his mouth, but Crowley forestalled him. “And don’t you dare utter a _word_ about your purpose, or mission, or duty. What I mean is, why give you that purpose in the first place? What is it _for_?”

“My dear girl. I should think it would be obvious.” Aziraphale sighed when it became clear that it wasn’t. “So that no one, no human that is, should ever have to die alone. Unnoticed. Forgotten.”

“You mean, you _remember_?” Crowley gaped. “ _All_ of them?”

“Of course.” The angel sat up very straight, cleared his throat, then began to recite: “Abel, Emzara, Noam, Adam, Dina, Eve, Adah, Seth, Zillah, Enos, Awab, Alzura, Betenos, Nod, Eualleleth, Baraka, Kenan, Ena, Mahalaleel, Cain, Jared…”

“You remember their _names_?” Despite the heat, the demon shivered.

“Don’t you think that someone ought to?” Aziraphale asked, as if any of this were entirely reasonable.

“How ... how many?”

“I have no idea. Millions, I should think. Tens of millions.” The angel shrugged. “I _could_ count them, but that would take so long, there would undoubtedly be many more before I finished. Those were just the first, of course, in order by time of death. I could tell you in alphabetical order, in any one of a dozen alphabets. Or organized by place of birth. Or by occupation, or by what they loved best, or by their greatest sorrow, or even by shoe size, I imagine. By manner of death, certainly.” Aziraphale’s tone was sharp. “I have a brand new category, small but growing, labelled _Death by Crowley_.”

 _Demons and ministers of vengeance persecute us!_ “But …how ... how...”

“Not certain, really. I just _do_. Retain them in ... in my essence, I suppose. The wings do help.” There was an audible rustle of feathers on a metaphysical plane. “I can’t consciously remember them all, of course, not with the neurological limitations of this corporation. It’s more like a continual ... background chorus, unless something,” Aziraphale waved at the plague-stricken city, “brings it to the forefront of my attention.”

“No, not...” the demon shook her head helplessly. “I meant, how do you keep from ... _resenting_ them? _Hating_ them? Making you ... _carry_ all that?”

“Oh, my dear.” The angel’s eyes went very soft. “It is no burden. It is a privilege. Truly. Each of them, so very special. Even those who ... _squandered_ their lives. Even those who never had much of a _chance_. So absolutely unique. So infinitely precious.” A tender smile shadowed his face. “If only I were a better angel, stronger, more capable .... But resent? I could never.” He rose back to his feet, automatically holding out a hand to help the demon to stand. “I should thank you, I suppose. For reminding me of that.”

Crowley ignored the hand, remaining perched on the tower wall. “Is it only humans, then?”

“Goodness, yes,” Aziraphale laughed a little. “That is, every one of Her creatures is lovely in its own way, but can you imagine having to hold on to every, I don’t know, duck? Snake? Beetle?”

“I was thinking more of ... what about angels, then?” Crowley hesitated. “Or ... you know.”

“But we’re immortal, my dear. We don’t _die._ ”

“We don’t _have_ to. But we _can_.” The demon stared fixedly at her taloned feet. “Not just ... discorporate. But, well, there’s hellfire. And holy water. And so on.” She risked a look at the angel. “Would you ... feel that? Would you remember, um, _Names_?”

“Oh. Oh.” Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t exactly know. But no angels have died, not like _that_ , not since .... well, Before. Or demons, to the best of my knowledge..." He looked an enquiry.

Crowley shrugged.

“Ah. But I wouldn’t think so. And besides...” The angel’s voice was sad, and very gentle. “That Name... for a demon, I mean ... It wouldn’t be who they _were_. Are. Not anymore.”

“Right. Just, y’know, wondering.” Crowley stood up and brushed off her skirts with deliberate casualness.

“Crowley...” Aziraphale said hesitantly. “I wouldn’t ... that is ... You wouldn’t. Have to die, I mean. For me to ... _remember_ you.”

“Nope,” the demon popped the consonant. “Course not. You’ve got a file with my name on it. That’s who I am.” She stepped off the edge of the tower. “Best get back to it, eh?”

“No! That’s not ... Crowley, _wait!_ ”

Crowley wasn’t listening. She was busy falling, no, she was flying, flying back to the streets and away from an angel who had room for all these stupid heedless infuriating humans, but none for a demon. 

Which was as it should be.

Which was why she was stalking the streets again, searching for another lucky human on the knife’s edge of death. _Her_ knife’s edge.

There. Propped against the lip of a dingy alley, weakly coughing blood and phlegm. Youngish, but not a boy any longer. Bitter and anguished and so terribly frightened. He’d do fine. She crouched by his side, and tilted his head down.

“ _Suora_?” he whined. “ _Sei qui per me_?”

The demon stroked the blade with her thumb. _Death by Crowley_. She winced, then tucked it away with a sigh. If that soft idiot of an angel could hang onto millions, she supposed she could hold just this one. 

“ _Sì. Resterò_.” She sagged, and lolled her head against the grimy plaster. “ _Qual è il tuo nome_?”

Notes:

1\. Crowley generally adopted honesty as a tactic, but a demon’s default was always to be a lying liar what lies.  Back

2\. But he would. He always would. Because as bad as it was to see his angel suffer, and the pain of _not_ seeing Aziraphale was immeasurably worse. Back

3\. There had been a _lot_ of times in Rome; but only one That Time.  Back

4\. The Roman Empire wasn’t, strictly speaking, on the side of Hell. The _Emperors_ , on the other hand… Back

5\. And that was fine, perfectly _fine_ , Crowley hadn’t planned on washing his face ever again anyhow.  Back

6\. To be scrupulously fair, zie was building on Famine’s stellar work from a generation earlier.  Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern Italian is not among my languages, let alone medieval Italian. If anyone would like to correct my translations, I'd be very grateful. English translations are as follows:  
> Child: "Mercy. Please."  
> Crowley: "Be at peace, my daughter."  
> ...  
> Young man: "Sister? Are you here for me?"  
> Crowley: "Yes, I will stay. What is your name?"


	8. O springs of water, seas, and streams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _To realize all of a sudden that the demon’s many considerate gestures over the millennia were not extended out of professional sympathy to a rubbish angel incapable of handling such a straightforward assignment, but purely because Crowley was …_ kind _, kind to_ Aziraphale _, and the angel simply didn’t have the conceptual framework to process that thought._
> 
> If Crowley is Captain Obvious, Aziraphale is Major Issues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So very sorry about the long delay! This was supposed to be an easy chapter, just skipping through the rest of the Ep. 3 cold open as it played out in this AU.
> 
> Alas, this is still 2020, and lightweight banter about mass death and wacky Nazi shenanigans wasn’t going to happen, any more than fluff about pandemics did. I tried to be as elliptical and non-graphic as I could, but these are heavy topics that deserve respectful treatment.
> 
> So TW for natural disasters, the Holocaust, and nuclear warfare. Be kind to yourself.

It had been a very pleasant six centuries. For the most part.

Not, Aziraphale allowed, without some unfortunate interludes. Far too many natural disasters. Far too many wars. Far too many unhappy opportunities for humans-being-human-at-their-worst, as humans-being-human-at-their- _best_ continued to shape and coax and jerry-rig an unfriendly planet into allowing, well, quite possibly far too many humans.

Not that he was complaining, exactly. Human ingenuity permitted them to spread far beyond their original latitudes, and to bringing the unlikeliest locales into global prominence—regions like his beloved England, with all its summer floods and arctic winters; and (at the other fringe of the Eurasian continent), the Japanese islands that Crowley preferred, pestered by earthquakes, volcanoes, and tsunamis. Possibly because of their unfortunate environment, both established maritime empires that still carried inordinate influence, despite the recent technological innovations that left the sailing ship obsolete.1

The growth of the human population had irksome consequences. At this point, sheer numbers dictated that normal attrition outstripped the death toll of the White Death at its worst; yet for some reason Aziraphale found the near-constant barrage of human mortality far less debilitating. Perhaps it was because most of these deaths were, on the whole, timely and peaceful. Perhaps he had simply become inured.

Perhaps it was the bookshop. While (generally speaking) his missions on Earth had required an itinerant lifestyle, the angel had in the past been stationed in one city or another for years, even decades, at a time. But he had never previously established anything that felt like a _home_ ; not like England. Not like London. Not like A. Z. Fell & Co.

It had been a whim, at first. He had always been enchanted by the human propensity towards storytelling, and (once the clever mortals had figured out a way to fix their narratives in written form) an avid collector of tablets, parchments, scrolls, and codices. It did not take many centuries, however, for the sheer accumulation of material (no matter how carefully curated) to become unwieldy; and the various libraries, archives and scriptoria he entrusted with his treasures had an unfortunate tendency to burn down, or flood, or become pillaged by barbarians, or other such nuisances. Even miracling a small unauthorized pocket dimension could be somewhat … _fraught_ , especially when he forgot where he put it.2 It only made sense to create a place of his own, then, one he could keep properly protected, where his most precious tomes would be convenient to hand. He called it a “shop”, to justify it to Heaven, but he scarcely bothered to pretend it was anything other than a private library. 

It was fitting, in a way. Sometimes he thought of his own duties as acting as sort of a library. An eternal, infallible archive, as it were; a catalogue of every individual human life, perfectly preserved in the celestial vault of his essential self. Yet the narratives recorded in the rolls of Aziraphale were _dead_ , in every sense of the word. Finished. Complete. He remembered them, true, but he was loath to revisit them; even the memories of those few humans he had known personally and loved. It felt … inappropriate. Intrusive. _Rude_ , even; like stirring up waters that had settled to a peaceful calm.

But the stories he lovingly collected in his bookshop … ah, these were very different. These were the records of human dreams and hopes and fears: scripts of possibility, biographies of the might-be, portraits of the never-were. Even the historical and scientific treatises, the prophets and pundits who declared their writings to be true, precise, and accurate, were little more than informed guesses and speculations.4 When he found himself beginning to totter under the weight of the over-and-done, nothing could be more soothing, nothing could be more _safe_ , than to retreat to his fortress built out of _maybe_ , buttressed by _perhaps_ , and lose himself in the soothing pages of what could never die, because it never really existed in the first place.

So maybe it _was_ the bookshop that had made the last few centuries so much more comfortable.

But Aziraphale suspected that there was a more likely wellspring of his increased equanimity. Put simply, it was that the demon now _knew_.

Aziraphale was guiltily aware that he shouldn’t take any solace in Crowley’s awareness. To be honest, he had been surprised that the other hadn’t _always_ known; he had taken for granted that his second Name, and all that it meant, was as obvious to any occult entity as it was to ethereal ones.5 To realize all of a sudden that the demon’s many considerate gestures over the millennia were not extended out of professional sympathy to a rubbish angel incapable of handling such a straightforward assignment, but purely because Crowley was … well, there wasn’t any other word for it: because Crowley was _kind_ , kind to _Aziraphale_ , and the angel simply didn’t have the conceptual framework to process that thought.

But now Crowley definitely knew how very badly Aziraphale was fulfilling the Name the Almighty had given to him. And instead of being disgusted at the angel’s weakness—or, worse, mocking him for his incompetence—or worst of all, _pitying_ him as a failure—the demon had been … supportive. Respectful, even. _Encouraging_ , as if it were possible to imagine a fiend from Hell having any sort of appreciation of the value of remembering human lives. 

Yet there it was. Aziraphale didn’t have to imagine it, because Crowley repeatedly demonstrated it.

The angel had long suspected that, for all his professed bitter disdain for humanity, his demonic counterpart nurtured a fondness for individual humans. But it was certainly more than Aziraphale had expected for Crowley to extend that … affection … to the representative of Heaven tasked with registering their passing. Still, since the fourteenth century, Crowley had been present in in his life to a greater degree than ever before. 

Where once they had met at most every few decades, now it was rare to go more than a year or two without encountering his counterpart—ostensibly to iron out details of their Arrangement, but both of them understood it was in truth an excuse to share a meal6, or to attend a play or concert, or to uncork several bottles of excellent wine. Every time he stopped by (usually in the aftermath of a particularly exhausting disaster of some sort), Crowley would bring along another trinket or treat or book that “ _just happened to catch my eye_ ”, that he “ _thought you might have a use for_ ”, and it would always be lovely and perfect and exactly what Aziraphale had most needed at that particular moment. And then there were the private little miracles, like ensuring _Hamlet_ ’s success, or luring Handel to London, or freeing a peckish and (possibly) over-dressed angel from an inconvenient execution, that Crowley would toss off just because he seemed to think that it might make the Aziraphale _happy_.

Honestly, if they had been characters in one of those sentimental novels that the angel had a secret predilection towards, instead of being inherent ontological enemies, the angel might have wondered if the demon were _courting_ him. But they weren’t, and they were what they were, and the very thought was so preposterous as to be almost indecent.

(Almost.)

Still, he permitted himself to enjoy their … well, not _friendship_ , surely, but it was very pleasant to spend time with the only companion who truly _understood_ , and if an agent of Hell chose to ease the burdens of an angel out of care for the memories of the human lives said angel safeguarded, surely that could be considered a form of _thwarting_. It wasn’t that Aziraphale was lonely. It wasn’t that he wanted the demon to _stick around_.

All of which comfortable self-delusions collapsed once the demon … didn’t.

The meeting had started agreeably enough. Aziraphale could never be bored with the antics of the ducks at St. James’s Park, greedy for morsels from spies, clandestine lovers, and rival supernatural beings alike. He had a particular yearning for diversion this time; the smallpox epidemic on the northwestern coast of the Americas hadn’t been unusually deadly for its kind (although that was plenty bad enough), but the impact on an already dwindling native population had been devastating. Since the angel knew that Crowley had been meddling recently in the Great Exhibition over in Kensington, he had hoped to be the beneficiary of scandalous stories of international misbehaviour, all of which he would vocally disapprove. Obviously.

Instead, the demon (daringly attired in stark white frock coat with a gleaming topper of pure raw silk, sure to be the next stare of fashion) surreptitiously slipped Aziraphale a cream-colored card while staring straight ahead, tapping his ivory stick against the calf of his slim-cut trousers in a matching shade.

The angel read it in some puzzlement, and glanced over. “ _Anthony_? You’re changing your name _again_?”

“Not so loud!” Crowley leaned away, just a bit. “And don’t act like you’re talking to me.” He shrugged. “‘M not changing it, not really. Just sticking some extra bits on. The humans seem to expect it, after all; don’t they, Mr. A. Z. Fell?”

Aziraphale had to concede the point. “And an address in Mayfair?” He frowned. “You’re leaving Kyushu for London permanently, then?”

“Might as well, angel. They’re going to be opening up the whole blessed country to foreigners any day now, they’ll be everywhere, overrun the place, won’t be any fun anymore, eh?”

Aziraphale had never quite understood Crowley on this issue. Human variation being what it was, the demon’s pale skin would blend in almost unnoticed with the inhabitants of northern Europe; so out of some sort of Hellish perversity he chose instead to spend much of his free time in a society where his height and colouring would not only stand out, but excite unfriendly attention.7 Of course, the angel’s own dark complexion was unusual in the British Isles, but fortunately retained sufficient vestiges of its Heavenly associations to make him seem approachable and comforting, rather than frightening.

“Still, that means we’ll be able to see each other much more easily,” Aziraphale turned towards him with a happy smile, but Crowley only hissed and inched away. The angel felt a little hurt, but nodded. “That is, I mean to say, for consulting on … details of assignments and such,” he amended.

“Not the best idea. Better to … back off a bit,” the demon muttered. “I think there may be … suspicions Upstairs. I need a favour.”

“Oh, my dear boy, of course! Anything in my power.” 

“Right then. Turn the card over.”

Aziraphale did so, and read the two words scrawled in the demon’s hand. He recoiled in shock. “Absolutely _not_!”

“So much for _anything in my power_ ,” Crowley snapped. 

“But, Crowley!” the angel protested. “This is much too dangerous. Holy water? It would destroy you utterly!”

“’M not an _id-diot-t-t_!” the other responded, a hint of avian chatter slipping in. “I know what-t the stuff can d-do.” He took an unnecessary breath. “’S’just for … _insurance_.”

Aziraphale couldn’t hear him, over the echoing roar in his memory. _There’s hellfire. And holy water … Would you remember Names?_ “I’ve already told you, it wouldn’t work. And I refuse to assist you in trying anything so reckless. Can you imagine what that would _do_ to me, Crowley? How can you even ask that of me?”

“S’not always about _you_ , Aziraphale,” Crowley bit through his teeth. “You’d think that you could do this one thing for me. After all I’ve…” He let the words trail off. 

“Don’t you dare try your wiles on me, _Demon_!” Aziraphale was near tears, he was that angry. Anger, yes, that was what had his voice and hands trembling. “I am an Angel of the Lord. I shouldn’t have ever … associated with you in the first place. _Fraternized_ , even. I might as well just … smite you now and have done with it.”

“Fraternized!” The word came out as a curse. “If that’s how you feel about it … Go ahead, then.” Crowley turned towards the angel, then, arms spread open in invitation. “S’wot I should expect of Heaven. So safe, so secure Down there, hiding in the dark. And the minute anything, any _one_ challenges your precious certainty, you make with the _smiting_.” He gestured towards himself. “Get it over with. And when I’m sent back, I will fucking well look out for _myself_ from now on.”

“How DARE you?” Aziraphale could scarcely think. With all the secret doubts and fears he had shared with Crowley—with all he had risked—with all he had _sacrificed_ , just to keep the demon safe—and _this_ is what Crowley thinks of him? “I wouldn’t waste the energy. You seem determined to destroy yourself.” He ripped the card in two and tossed it to the ground, searching for a suitably scathing exit line. He settled on the not-at-all-satisfying “Good _day_ to you, sirrah!” and stalked off.

Behind him he could hear “ _Sirrah_? Really?” When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw the demon using his bootheel to grind out the smoking remnants of his calling card.

That was his last sight of Crowley for what seemed like a long, long time.

~o*O*o~

Aziraphale was a rubbish angel. Simply awful.

He was soft, and too greedy for the material things of Creation. He was selfish and lacked compassion. He may have meant well, but he was far too lazy and … and … _weak_ to perform the simple task that the Almighty Herself had personally assigned to him. 

Aziraphale knew all of this about himself, even without the constant reminders from the archangels Below. 

But in almost six thousand years, he had never been as conscious of his failings as he had been in over the past several decades.

Admittedly, the state of the world had been monotonously _dreadful_. Surely this harsh planet had not always been so unkind to its human inhabitants? But no sooner had Crowley … had Crowley behaved so _unreasonably_ , then the famine and floods in China begun. Followed by the flood and famines in eastern Europe. Then that simply awful hurricane in the northern Mexican states… Not that the humans had been any less ghastly to each other: trench warfare, mechanized slaughter, poison gas; there seemed no end to their ingenuity in coming up with new and more efficient each ways to kill each other. The Riders had been everywhere, never giving him a moment’s peace—whenever Famine and War would take a pause, the Pestilence would swoop in, even more ferocious than the other two put together. 

But Aziraphale should have been able to bear it. He’d been through worse periods in human history. He had witnessed the elimination of the entire population, save one family. He’d withstood the painful slaughter of millions.

(He hadn’t been _alone_ before.)

It’s not like Crowley was _gone_. Not completely. If the idiot demon had somehow actually managed to get his hands on the means of his own utter destruction, Aziraphale would have known. Surely, he would have known. There was simply no way a callous world could have kept spinning, no way for Aziraphale’s oblivious corporation to keep functioning, in a Creation suddenly devoid of a certain flame-haired menace. Surely.

He’d probably gone back up to Hell, despite his oft-professed loathing for the place. Or … or simply taken a _nap_ , the spiteful old shrike, just _dozing_ through all these endless disasters, through not one but _two_ world-engulfing wars, leaving a wretched angel to cope with it all on his own.

Well. Was Aziraphale so shallow that he took more strength from crooked grins, from naughty questions, from a certain sulphurous presence, than from the righteousness of his angelic duty?

As the angel found himself spending interminable months slogging through the freezing blood-churned mud of the Dnieper valley, choking in the stinking smoke from Polish crematoria, he began grimly to believe that he perhaps was just that superficial. Without the … all right, he’d go ahead and say it (at least in the privacy of his own thoughts) … without the _solace_ of the demon’s company, he found the weight of human deaths almost unbearable.

And now, on a hot August night three days after one—just _one!_ —explosion in a middling Japanese industrial city had driven him to his knees, gasping at the shuddering onslaught of lives cut short as they ripped through his trembling wings, Aziraphale stood on the steps of the hallowed Suwa shrine in Nagasaki, dreading the arrival of weapon he knew would be twice as powerful, twice as deadly, and came perilously close to just … giving up.

To abandoning any care for the cowardly, covetous, savage humans who wasted all the brilliance and creativity She had blessed them in their insane thirst to rain death upon each other.

To admitting his failure and going home. Well, not _home_ 9, but back down Below, where he had no responsibilities, where he could just … rest for a while.

At least Heaven was simple. Cool. _Quiet_. Nobody insistently shouting his name.

“Aziraphale! _Aziraphale!_ Oi, you stupid angel!”

“Crowley?” The angel looked about, puzzled. He could hear, not with his corporeal ears, but somewhere in his essence, the voice he knew better than any other coming from … the Urakami valley? The _Cathedral_? What…:?

“I need you here, _now_!”

Aziraphale didn’t even stop to think. With a few beats of his wings, he was halfway across the city, hovering above the massive Neo-Romanesque church. It was easy to spot the white-suited figure perched uneasily upon the cupola of one of the twin belltowers. So many questions fought with each other to be asked as he alit on the demon’s right: _Are you all right? Where have you been? Why are you here? How could you abandon me for so long?_ But none of them could compete for urgency with the single statement, “My dear, you have to leave here immediately, it isn’t safe!”

“Not safe?” Crowley stared at him incredulously. “Course it isn’t safe! I’m standing on top of a bloody cathedral, which is boiling my feet thank you very much, and someone’s about to drop the biggest fucking bomb ever built on top of it, and all you can say is _it isn’t safe_?”

“You know, then?” The angel snapped his fingers, and a makeshift wooden scaffold appeared where they were standing. He wasn’t sure how much it would shield the demon from the building’s consecrated power, but hoped it might spare him a few blisters.

“Know? _Know_? Do you have any idea how many miracles I had to work to bring this about—OW!” The planks beneath his feet abruptly disappeared.

“So this is _your_ doing?” Aziraphale hoped that the scorn in his voice overshadowed the bitter disappointment and sense of betrayal.

“Yeah, I… Oh, for Go- Sa- _Someone’s_ sake, Aziraphale!” Crowley yelled, trying to stand without touching anything. “Just listen, all right? The bombers… their primary target tonight, so much bigger and more vulnerable, I had to muck with clouds and smoke and I don’t know what-all for _hours_ before they gave up and decided to try for Nagasaki instead, right now it’s all I can do to obscure the shipyards and play with the wind patterns so the payload will land on Urakami instead and I could use a little _help_ here, so—"

“But _why_? Nagasaki was your _home_!”

“Not my home. Just a place where I, y’know, lived for a while.” The demon looked very uncomfortable. “Look, we don’t have time … Just trust me, all right?”

Aziraphale crossed his arms and said nothing.

Crowley sighed. “It’s … this bomb, it’s much more powerful even than the last one. If it landed on Kokura, it’d kill hundreds of thousands, easy. Here, if I can steer it right, the surrounding hills will channel much of the force of the blast upwards… I’m not saying it will be _okay_ , it’s gonna be _horrible_ , and I know it’s gonna _hurt_ you, but … Please, Aziraphale. I can get away with this, they’ll be tickled to pieces Upstairs that I destroyed a church, ‘specially this church, but there’s some big holy day or other coming up, and there’s dozens of people in there, I’ve got no excuse to protect _them_ , I know it isn’t much when so many others are going to die, and it’ll be _my_ _fault_ , as usual, but _you_ can, and incidentally if you could keep the pair of us from being blown to bits that’d be nice as well, and oh _shit_ we’re out of time…”

The noise and heat and sheer force of the blast were indescribable.

Aziraphale lost track of where and when he was. For an endless moment, he thought that he was back on a lakeshore in Anatolia, watching the Heavenly engineers fail in their attempts to repair an unstable sun, a star now exploding and consuming in its death throes a fragile broken planet, and all the precious lives it carried.

Yet … still he stood. 

He wondered why. A frozen determination beneath his conscious will demanded that he remain on guard, wings spread wide, shielding something that he could not, _would not_ , risk losing…

“Angel?” a raspy voice came from behind him, muffled by his midnight feathers. “Are you … Izzit … Can I …”

_No. Not_ safe _, not yet …_ Aziraphale slowly became aware of his surroundings. The air around him was palpable with dust and smoke, great billowing clouds of iron red and grey and bilious yellow. Small shards of wood spontaneously flamed and charred in the heat. Death upon death upon death stabbed through him, pinning his wings to the remnants of the cupola. A structure, he struggled to realize, teetering at an odd angle, blown into the ground over twenty meters from the shattered ruins of the belltower. Nothing else of the great cathedral seemed to remain.

_…death upon death upon death upon death upon death upon death upon death upon death upon death upon death…_

His throat hurt. He realized that he was screaming, a wordless keening howl at a frequency to low for human ears to catch, but which was making the ground beneath him shake and the fragments of masonry crumble and sway.

“Hey. Hey. Don’t.” He felt hands at his back, clumsily patting. “It’s … You’re all right. It will be all right.” The hands stilled, pulled away. He wished they hadn’t. “Look. Look over there. In the tower. You did it.”

_…death upon death upon … lives? Someone had lived through that?_

“You saved them, angel. It’s only … only a few, I know. But they’re gonna need you. Need your help. To get out of there. Protect them.”

_Protect the living. Safeguard the dead._ Two competing drives warred within him. He tottered. Went down on one knee.

“Hold on there, angel. I’ve got you.” Hands at his back again, steadying him. “Gotta put those pretty wings away. You don’t want to scare anyone.” A snort that might have been a laugh. “Specially me.”

_Wings. He_ needed _his wings. No. Fold them away. He could witness without them_. Aziraphale groaned and stood back upright. On a metaphysical plane just sideways to this one, thousands of eyes maintained their unblinking watch. At the same time, in this material reality, a man-shaped ethereal entity straightened his black, vaguely uniform-like jacket, tugged at his buttoned cuffs, ineffectively brushed at the soot and cinders that covered him from head to toe.

Crowley emerged from the fallen dome, circled around, and tapped the brim of his hat in a casual greeting. “Nice save, angel, pleasure to see you again.” He raised a critical eyebrow. “So to speak. You look a right mess.”

“And you,” Aziraphale retorted, “look like one of those gangsters from the moving picture shows.” He eyed the demon’s pristine suit and matching fedora. “Oh, good Lord.” He tried to ignore the soothing sensation of _rightness_ that suddenly flooded through him.

Crowley smirked. “You may have standards, but some of us have _style_.” He gestured towards the ruins. “C’mon, let’s get those people to a hospital or something.”

The angel started forward. “If there are any left functioning. You know that the medical college is located just … oh, what is _that_?” Aziraphale gazed raptly at the enormous bronze object, half buried in the rubble. He stroked the curve of the elegantly carved lip. It was hot—too hot for a human to touch, probably—but rapidly cooling. He looked about a field strewn with shattered fragments of coloured glass, blackened, broken statuary, melted pools of decorative gilding and ironwork. “How could this possibly survive?”

“Little demonic miracle of my own,” Crowley said offhandedly. “Couldn’t let those bastards destroy the _Angelus_ bell, could I? Wouldn’t sit right.” He looked back to where Aziraphale stood frozen, just staring at him. “You okay?”

Oh.

Oh, dear.

Aziraphale was definitely not _okay_.

Or perhaps, he was more _okay_ now than he had ever been in his very long life.

The angel shook himself, and hurried forward. He had humans to protect and guard. He would think about … all of this … later. 

Much later.

And he _definitely_ would not tell the demon that the Angelus bell was (technically) dedicated to Gabriel.

Notes:

1\. The desperate desire to be _anywhere but here_ was not without downsides; most notably, the monstrous plagues that decimated the native populations of the Americas, a blow from which those continents had yet to recover. Crowley, he knew, felt rather guilty about that, although Aziraphale thought any accusations of responsibility tenuous at best.  Back

2\. If he ever did remember the coordinates, however, the rediscovery of such fabled texts3 as Homer’s _Margites_ , Ovid’s _Medea_ , Cornelius Gallus’s _Amores_ , Kong Fuzi’s _Classic of Music_ , and the complete _Yong-le Dadian_ would undoubtedly cause hundreds of spontaneous cerebral explosions in several specialized academic departments. Back

3\. He actually did have in his shop an extra copy of Shakespeare’s _Cardenio_ , but he kept it to himself in order to protect his dear Will’s reputation.  Back

4\. With one exception, of course. But that particular volume had yet to be added to Aziraphale’s shelves, despite his avid searches. Back

5\. To be sure, he was beginning to have his doubts about _that_ as well. Otherwise, he would have to consider several of Gabriel’s remarks to be almost diabolically tactless; and he preferred to think that his angelic siblings were clueless rather than cruel.  Back

6\. said “sharing” consisted of Aziraphale sampling the specialties of the house, and Crowley watching him eat and paying the bill.  Back

7\. The last time Aziraphale had been nearby, on assignment to bless the beleaguered Christian community, Crowley had tried to explain that although the locals immediately spotted him for a demon (of a sort), the popular attitude towards supernatural entities was oddly relaxed. Most simply addressed him _Tengu-sama_ 8 and left him alone with his stone gardens and koi ponds; the few who approached were primed by their own folktales to expect to outwit him in ridiculous contests and bets. “Easiest temptations ever: they practically write their own contracts!” he grinned. The angel had simply nodded without comprehending a word of it, and helped himself to more sushi.  Back

8\. The same locals called Aziraphale _bake-danuki_ , which made Crowley laugh uproariously, but he wouldn’t explain why.  Back

9\. “Home” was a bookshop where the smoke-and-sweet-spice scent of a demon once lingered, where the jingling bell used to presage the call of “Angel!”, but that place was just a ghost, a memory that refused to die for eighty years.  Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The details about the bombing of Nagasaki -- that it was a second (actually, more like a fourth) choice of target, that the bomb missed its intended target of the Mitsubishi shipyards by several kilometers to land very close to the Urakami Cathedral, that the geography probably preserved much of the city and cut the death toll (estimated at 60-80,000) in half, even the "miraculous" survival of the Angelus bell -- are historical facts. The only thing different about our reality is that Aziraphale and Crowley weren't there, so the priests and 12-20 worshippers preparing for the Feast of the Assumption died instantly.  
> If you want to read more about the event, do look up the career of Takashi Nagai. It just might help reassure you that human beings can occasionally be very very worthwhile indeed.
> 
> If you have found something of value in this bleak fic so far, it would be a kindness in these stressful times to leave a comment or a kudos. It gives me the strength to keep going.


	9. Storm clouds and thunderbolts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Crowley was a positive thinker, or better yet, a positive_ assume _-er, but he was complete shite at making plans._
> 
>   
> A nice, fluffy chapter leading up to the End of the World.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Gaah, this fic. I thought that I wouldn’t need any warnings for this chapter; then I checked my outline. So, CONTENT WARNINGS: Glancing references to genocide; more specific references to child murder.

The thing was—the thing _was_ —deep down at his core, Crowley was an optimist. 

Aziraphale, of all human-shaped entities, had pointed it out back in 1807, during their rather riotous celebration of the long-awaited abolition of the slave trade. “Tha’ss what I … admire … about you, m’dear,” he slurred. “You _always_ expect that ev’rything will just … work out.”

Crowley couldn’t be having with that. A demon shouldn’t be _admired_ by an angel, after all. “Gotta be an optimist, angel. After all, no matter how steadily this poxy Creation seems to be ticking along, we know it’s all gonna go ‘poof’ eventually.” He considered a moment, and took another swig of a nigh-transcendent Côte-Rotie. “Mebbe not _poof_. Mebbe _boom_. Mebbe _ekke ekke ekke ekke PTANG zoom boing_. What-t-t’s not to be optimiminalistic about?”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale nodded sagely. “Tha’ss what I mean. Er, eventuation of the evalued outcome … evellination of the elevation … whether _I like it or not_ , ‘m saying you just have _faith_ that …”

“… watch it …”

“… that things will go your way, an’ they _do_.” The angel gave a self-pitying little sigh. “Not like angels. We have to plan for everything. There’s the Great Plan, of course, an’ all the not-so-great plans, the little plans, and I _worry_ so, and they don’t … they don’t …”

“Nah, angel, they _do_.” Crowley waved his arms about extravagantly, which would have sloshed wine all over the sofa, if the excellent vintage hadn’t known what a very bad idea that would be. “’S why we’re here tonight. Well done, you!”

“Five thousand years, my dear!” Aziraphale pouted. “Just to outlaw a practice that should never have been allowed to begin in the first place.”

And then the angel was _sad_ , which wasn’t to be borne, forcing the demon to reach deep into his bag of tricks (or, in this case, treats) to cheer him up, but that wasn’t the point, the point _was_ that Crowley was a positive thinker, or better yet, a positive _assume_ -er, but he was complete shite at making plans.

Not that he didn’t try. Over the millennia, he had crafted any number of brilliant, complicated, practically foolproof schemes, mostly with the laudable aim of dazzling his bosses sufficiently that he might slack off and spend more time fluttering about his angel; but every blessed one of them had the fatal flaw that the stupid humans didn’t _cooperate_. They never stayed within the lines he had scripted for them1.

Like that whole elaborate project in the Americas, for example. He had spent centuries on that one, borrowing entire tropes from some of Heaven’s more baroque prophetic texts, carefully seeding legends of a miraculous wonder-worker (who just happened to match his own description) who would return to lead his people to a glorious paradise—okay, he didn’t quite expect the way some groups would run with the whole thing, those pyramidal abattoirs left him downright queasy—but the point was he was almost ready to swoop in and trigger a hilarious crisis of faith across _two entire continents_ , when that bloody Spaniard had the absolute _cheek_ to steal Crowley’s whole returning-demigod setup. And really, how did he pull that off anyhow? Cortés might’ve been kind of pale-ish, but _nothing_ like a demon, his hair was more sandy than red, and he didn’t even _bother_ to pretend to have wings; but what he did have was _smallpox_ , and before Crowley could get back and sort everything out, the White Rider was on a tear, and four-fifths of the population had died.2

So, yeah, Crowley wasn’t a big fan of planning. Humans were bad enough, but trying to make plans around supernatural entities was a sodding nightmare.3

That hadn’t stopped him from trying, though, back when he first realized that some of the reports he had been sending up to Hell were being viewed with entirely justified skepticism (and really, from an objective standpoint, it was about _time_ , what did Hell think they were about, trusting a demon to tell the truth?) So he had devised a plan, and it was a good plan, or at least it wasn’t an absolutely idiotic plan, and if it relied upon Aziraphale’s help, well, that made it even _better_ , didn’t it, that’s the one thing Hell wouldn’t ever expect.

Except that Aziraphale had gone absolutely fucking _spare_ , and Words Were Said, and the demon hadn’t any choice but to sod off back to Japan and take a nap, had he? He wasn’t _sulking_. He was … _practicing self-care_. Setting boundaries. That’s what they called it now.

Except he apparently had _set boundaries_ right around what seemed to have been a blessed nightmare of a century for Aziraphale (and Crowley expended some of his choicest curses for the stupid broken planet and the stupid savage humans who lived on it, who apparently had put his poor angel through worse miseries than the entire Legions of Hell could have dreamed up) and Crowley hadn’t been there to help. At all. And when even a useless demon couldn’t sleep through someone dropping a nuclear weapon practically down the street, and he rushed out to do something, _anything_ , about it, all he could think of was to force a deliberate attack aimed at one of Aziraphale’s pet projects, and he had the gall to drag the angel right into the middle of it, and still Aziraphale’s first thought was to _protect_ Crowley, like they had never had that horrible row, like Crowley had never abandoned him, like he was anything other than the foulest fiend who ever … fiended.5

So that was a Thing.

Yet somehow they were able to pick up their—not friendship, Aziraphale had never allowed _that_ , but still more than a mere Arrangement of convenience—right where they had left off. Maybe a little more tentative, maybe a little less dinner-and-a-show-and-a-night-of-convivial-drinking-at-the-bookshop, maybe a little more terse-coded-conversations-on-the-Number-Six-Bus, but that was mostly Crowley’s doing, since Hell hadn’t seemed to lessen their suspicions over the decades the demon hadn’t even _submitted_ any memos (although Aziraphale had made a rather indescribable face when the demon had mentioned that) and it was safer for both of them, if anyone was watching.

So Crowley hadn’t entirely given up on the whole _insurance_ plan, either.

~*o*O*o*~

Nearly a quarter century later, Crowley was feeling pretty chuffed as she tossed her shoulder-length flip and sauntered back to her white 1964 Lotus Elan convertible.6 She had given some thought to wearing the leather catsuit—it would surely have boosted her newest confederates’ belief in her criminal bonafides—but chose the dramatic geometric-red-on-white minidress instead. After all, every time she wore it, emerging from her vehicle long legs first, hemline hitching up, she could pretty much tick off her Temptations Quota for the day. 

Soon the demon had another reason to be very glad of the choice.

Aziraphale was sitting in the passenger seat of her automobile.

“Hallo, angel,” she murmured huskily, sliding into the front seat. “Shall I put the top up for this conversation?”

“Perhaps.” Aziraphale looked straight ahead. He might have been a banker, or possibly a solicitor, in his conservative three-piece suit of midnight-coloured pinstripe. His ridiculous bowtie—black with a thin tartan pattern of blue and sparkling gold—bobbed as he swallowed. His stormcloud curls floofed rather alarmingly in the humid weather.

He was so beautiful that, for a minute, Crowley forgot that she didn’t need to breathe. 

Then she remembered what she was doing in this neighborhood, and coughed awkwardly. “Something I can help you with? I’m in a bit of a—”

“I had heard,” Aziraphale interrupted—and wasn’t that a shocking bit of rudeness for the angel—“that you were planning a … _caper_.”

“Oi, angel, it’s personal business. Not, I mean, _official_. Nothing that calls for any sort of thwarting.”

The angel hummed, still not looking at Crowley. “Do you know,” he asked abruptly, “how many angels were ejected from Heaven since the creation of the Earth?”

 _Huh_. That was a bit of a tangent. “Well, there was that whole business with the Nephilim…”

“That was a … scandal.” Aziraphale pursed his lips disapprovingly. “Those involved were disciplined. It was not … _pleasant_.” He ducked his head, then set his chin again. “But they are still of Heaven. They did not Rise.”

The demon shook her head. “Then I don’t think there were any.”

“One.” Aziraphale said, still in that distant voice. “Exactly one. Neither Heaven nor Hell care to publicize it. Each for their own reasons. But, well, I couldn’t help but know about the whole incident.”

The angel was silent for so long that Crowley thought he wasn’t going to speak again. “Who was it, then?” she prompted.

“The angel’s Name was … lost. But the circumstances … she was a guardian angel. Back when humans were few enough, each could be assigned an individual guardian. This was before the reorganization, well, one of them anyways, when guardians were re-assigned to entire nationalities, or occupations, or … I’ve always thought that it was one of the reasons for the change, you know.”

Crowley most certainly did _not_ know the minute details of Heaven’s org chart. Nor did she care. “So, this guardian, then. She neglected her charge?”

“Quite the opposite. She was very … diligent. She loved the boy, as fiercely as an angel _can_ love, which … well, that was the problem.”

The demon thought she knew where this story was heading. She really really hoped not, though.

“So…” Aziraphale continued. “This guardian angel. She protected and guided the boy all through his childhood. He wasn’t perfect, of course; children who are _never_ naughty aren’t … quite _right_. But he was very young, and thus remained innocent. Still, the angel worried as her charge approached the age of moral responsibility. You know, that moment when human souls have to bear the consequences of their choices.”

“ _My_ fault,” rasped the demon.

Aziraphale turned to frown at her. “Crowley, that’s neither accurate nor at all relevant. Please, just listen. This is … difficult.” He looked away again. “Anyways, just as the boy reached the cusp of maturity, he fell into an argument with another child. I don’t know what it was about, but … his guardian could sense that he was about to choose, to make a _culpable_ choice, to strike the other. The angel could not bear for him to lose his innocence that way.”

“So? She punched out the other kid on his behalf?” Crowley could not keep the faintest trace of admiration from her voice.

“No. She broke her charge’s neck. So that he would die untouched by sin.” Aziraphale was silent again, then whispered, “His name was Jaid. He was just eleven years old.”

Crowley could not think of one word to say.

“I honestly do not know if your … actions in the Garden were originally part of the Great Plan or not. But I do know for a fact that the Almighty quickly incorporated free will into it; indeed, it has become one of the linchpins of the Plan’s unfolding. When anyone … _anyone_ … acts to take that choice away … even out of an abundance of misguided … compassion … She become, er, most _put out._ ”

This entire conversation was making the demon hideously uncomfortable. “All _right_ , Aziraphale, you’ve already lectured me on this before, I haven’t killed a kid for over six hundred years, okay?”

“Oh, no!” The angel shifted abruptly to look at Crowley, his face aghast. “Oh, my dear, this wasn’t aimed at _you_. I was talking about _me_. I was trying … er, that is… I believe that I owe you an apology.”

 _No, no, no. Not_ again. “Angel ...” Crowley began, then trailed off helplessly.

“It is commonly held that beings of our sort—angels and demons, that is to say—lack free will. You yourself alluded to that when we first met; that you didn’t think it was even _possible_ for an angel to do a bad thing, or a demon to do a good one. But, my dear, surely both of us have realized over the millennia that … it’s more complicated than that. So…” Aziraphale produced from _somewhere_ a stout thermos and offered it to the demon. “I am so very sorry that I tried to deny you your … your choices. My motives are no excuse.”

Crowley took the thermos gingerly. Its dark pattern was a perfect match to the angel’s tie. “Is this …?”

“Yes. The very holiest.” Aziraphale gave her a strained smile. “Please do be careful with it. I should hate to … well, you know.”

“Yeah.” Crowley gazed reverently at the unassuming object, lips slightly parted. She transferred that look back up to her companion. “Should I … thank you, then?”

“Better not.”

“Right.” _This_ was familiar territory. “A lift then? Anywhere you want to go.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Crowley… You … I have been flying far too high as it is, this past while. I think that I should force my feet back down to the ground. You understand, I’m sure. At least, until … well. Nothing’s ever finished, is it?”

Crowley didn’t know how to answer that one, either. 

Aziraphale opened the automobile door and walked away. 

_Huh_. Looked like the insurance plan was back on, then.

~*o*O*o*~

“Aziraphale. It’s me. We have to talk.” 

Crowley had thought that there would be more _time._

But at least he had a plan. An excellent plan. One that even his angel would agree _had_ to work.

( _several hours later_ )

“No! Absolutely not.”

“But _Aziraphale_ …”

“You simply cannot expect me to … overtly _defy_ the Great Plan!”

“’S’not like _defiance_. More like … _thwarting_. Yeah, that’s it. The baby comes from my side, I’m meant to lead him into temptation, you’ll deliver him from evil. Can’t get more angelic than that, can you?”

“I don’t …” Aziraphale was wringing his hands. _Excellent_. That meant he was searching for some reason to be persuaded. 

“We’ll be like … godfathers. Well, you will. I s’pose I’ll be the nanny.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Shouldn’t _I_ be the nanny? Surely, as the more, er, _loving_ entity…”

 _There_ was his angel. Not two minutes ago he was soundly rejecting the entire idea. Now he was pouting because he wasn’t getting the plum role. “S’not about _love_ , angel. It’s about dirty nappies and spit-up down your shirt. Got any special expertise there?”

“Well, my dear, you have always had such a _rapport_ with children!” Aziraphale backtracked hurriedly. “I shall be … er … oh! I shall be the librarian!”

Crowley pinched his nose. “Aziraphale, the adoptive father is the ambassador from some third-rate country, South Canada or Mexico del Norte or thereabouts. The point is, they’re diplomats. They don’t _have_ a librarian.”

“John of Gaunt was a diplomat,” Aziraphale sniffed. “And I was _his_ librarian.”

“Don’t you _dare_ bring up the fourteenth century—”

“Or … hmm. Unlike some entities, I _like_ horses. I could be stablemaster. Or coachman.”

This time, Crowley didn’t say anything. He just stared stare-fully, until the angel blushed and looked at his hands. “Or a guard, I suppose. You have to admit that I’ve experience there.”

The demon shook his head. “They’ll have already supplied their own security. And no offense, angel, I’m sure you’d be infinitely better at the job than any of them, but you don’t exactly _look_ like a goon.”

“No more than you look like a nanny.”

“But I _can_ ,” Crowley countered. “Done it before. You, um, look like … like …” _an angel_ “… a gardener, maybe?”

Aziraphale seemed dubious. “Oh, it’s been _centuries_. And I mostly worked in medicinal gardens, anyhow.”

“Better’n me. The only gardens I’ve had a hand in were made of _rocks_.” Now that he thought of it, Crowley became sold on the idea. “But _you_. Every time we go to a park, half the sodding plants burst into bloom just for sheer _joy_ at your presence, you know that they do. Bloody repellent, it is. You could indoctrinate the kid into _appreciating the wonders of Creation_. Brother Snail, Sister Slug, all that rot.” _And I could sit there and watch you. I could chat and joke with you. I could share meals and evenings with you. Every single day_.

This was totally gonna work. This was officially the Best Fucking Plan Ever.

_(eleven years later)_

“Wrong boy?”

“Wrong boy.”

That had officially been the Worst Fucking Plan Ever.

Notes:

1\. Or, as Aziraphale observed primly, “Evil always contains the seeds of its own destruction,” which was utter bollocks. The humans almost always made things worse than he had planned, after all.  Back

2\. Crowley tried to take some comfort in syphilis, but as revenges went, it wasn’t very satisfying. Back

3\. There was one plan4, almost six thousand years in the making, that he still had hopes for, though.  Back

4\. Although calling it a ‘plan’ might have been overly generous, since the current outline:

Step 1: Throw heart repeatedly at angel’s pretty feet for angel to ignore

Step 2: ???

Step 3: !!!

lacked something in the fine details. Back

5\. Crowley’s Internal Monologues of Self-Loathing had even greater tendency to become unravelled than his audible rants.  Back

6\. She had almost gone with a more classic vintage model, but she was always a flash demon, and this one really captured that whole mod vibe.  Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please know that I treasure every single kudos and comment.
> 
> Next chapter: Welcome to the End Times!


	10. O spirits and souls of the righteous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Every imaginable choice she could make had already been predicted, debated, annotated by generations past; every outcome predetermined._
> 
> There are many other beings in this world besides one resident demon and one guardian angel. Most of them are finding this whole “free will” thing unexpectedly complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short-ish chapter, to allow some other interested parties a chance to share with the rest of the class.

Anathema Device was a very lucky woman. 

After all, that was literally written down in her many-times-great-grandmother’s book: “ _O fortunate Dauchter of many dauchters, thou happye Cursed_ 1 _, thatte these shewings finde theyr End inne Thee!_ ”

And Anathema knew, she _knew_ that this was true. Not only had she been singled out for special attention for her destined role in the End Times2 in the prophecies that were her family’s greatest treasure, this same legacy had afforded her (and her parents, and her parents’ parents, and so forth) an exquisitely comfortable existence available to only a very few in this world.

Thanks to centuries of careful investments (and even more careful avoidance of risks), Anathema grew up in palatial home on the western coast of the North American continent, in the region controlled by the Sino-Russian Alliance. Despite their (mostly) indigenous and Latin ancestry, her family’s wealth insulated them from worrying about shifting political alliances, or the various natural disasters and epidemics that regularly devastated the area. 

Anathema herself didn’t have to waste a moment’s thought on sorting out potential careers, or romances, or even interests or hobbies. She would be a witch. She would be trained in the theodolite, the pendulum, the runes, the athamé3; she would learn to read auras, cards, ley lines, and obscure niche magazines. She would return to her prophetic ancestor’s homeland of England. She would have an … intimate encounter … with a witchfinder; then team up with him to find and (she hoped) thwart the Antichrist in his attempt to end the world. Every imaginable choice she could make had already been predicted, debated, _annotated_ by generations past; every outcome predetermined. 

Such was the blessing of being a descendent of Agnes Nutter, whose _Nice and Accurate Prophecies_ was the only known prophetic text to be entirely true.4

And Anathema was grateful. She _was_. All right, she hadn’t _always_ been. She had, in her early teen years, tried deliberately to make choices completely opposed to Agnes’s prophecies. All that had got her were broken friendships, nasty hangovers, and the burning embarrassment of discovering that her futile rebellions were also fully predicted. There was no humiliation quite like having one’s messy after-party photos emailed to the whole extended family, with the dispassionate commentary “ _so this clears up the puzzling reference in the second sub-clause of #3117._ ” 

But she had worked all that out of her system. She was _here_ , now. In England. In Tadfield. In Jasmine Cottage. Doing exactly what, and where, and how Agnes Nutter had foretold all those centuries ago. She had knowledge. She had skills. She had a duty. She had a purpose. 

And all that was surely better than merely having _choices_.

~o*0*o~

Newton Pulsifer was a very lucky man.

He would be the first to acknowledge it. He was young, and healthy, and well-educated. He had a job … well, he had _had_ a job, and would surely have another one soon. He had a kind heart, and that was more important than money or looks, wasn’t it? That was what his Mum always said, at any rate. (Newt also had a mother who believed that he was handsome and brilliant and destined for great things someday.6)

Newt had enough faith in the system to keep trying to do the right thing, and sufficient subtle wit to not despair with the way it usually came back to bite him on the arse. He had plenty of friends, at least of the sort who would always include him on excursions out for a pint if he happened to be in the room. He had a sense of style that would see him wearing the right jacket, even if were usually the wrong color, worn with very much the wrong trousers, a month after everybody else had stopped wearing it.

Newt had _dreams_ , he did. He had hopes that someday he’d be able to put to good use all the skills that he had studied and practiced for so long. He had a wish he might make the sort of friends who would actually notice he wasn’t currently with them at the pub, and call him up to invite him over. He had a fantasy that there was a girl somewhere (or even a boy, Newt didn’t mind, and even had a vague notion that the latter might make him more interesting7) who would find Newt attractive enough to agree to dinner, possibly to kiss, maybe even to adopt a cat with.

But most important, right now Newt had some place to be on a Thursday morning. It wasn’t a very interesting place. It didn’t pay particularly well (or at all—that was something that he was still trying to figure out.) It was, if he were to be strictly honest, terribly odd. But the dodgy, possibly mental, definitely scabrous old codger seemed to _need_ his help; and Newt had rather a weakness for being necessary. 

Anyways, a bloke who had all of this shouldn’t be thinking about all the things that he didn’t have. Like any sort of talent at the things that interested him. Or the certain indefinable _something_ that would make him interesting to other people8. Like choices.

Because Newt had learned long ago that caring about anything, _wanting_ anything, enough to actually try to make it happen was a certain guarantee that it would remain forever outside his grasp.

So Newton Pulsifer, at the age of twenty-three, had pretty much given up choosing to choose. Instead, he drifted along, idly swirling into this eddy of a career, that meander of a relationship, wherever the currents of his life happened to carry him.

Until they cast him upside-down on an embankment outside the village of Tadfield.

~o*0*o~

They were, all of the Them, very lucky children.

Not that they were aware of their good fortune. That was part of being so lucky, the not-knowing.

They knew that they were _happy_ , of course. That their days were filled with adventure and fun, with just enough quarrels and danger to lend spice. That Adam, their undisputed leader, was exciting and imaginative and always ready with another new game. That their parents loved them and took good care of them, but certainly didn’t _understand_ them, because how awkward would _that_ be? That their little town was filled with cozy, slightly shabby houses, quaint winding streets, blooming gardens and fruitful orchards, intriguing little shops where penny candy and ice cream were always for sale, a sharp-scented forest with sunlit meadows and tangled paths leading anywhere and nowhere, an abandoned quarry with boulders for climbing and ponds for swimming and caves for exploring, where the skies held only fluffy clouds, soft rains, and snow on Christmas Eve, and where they were regarded by all inhabitants with the appropriate mix of affection, amusement, and annoyance.

What they _didn’t_ know was how unusual it was to have such a perfect childhood. That in fact they were living an idyll that had never been experienced by any other human being since one lovely week in a long-forgotten Garden. 

They also didn’t know that things couldn’t have been different even if they had wanted them to be.

It’s possible that they themselves might have been … different. That Pepper might have taken after her former flower-child mother, might not have been so enthralled by historical weaponry, not so quick to resort to fists when outraged or amused. That Wensleydale might have been more of a Jeremy, rather than formal and pedantic. That Brian might have been a little less vague and dreamy and … earthy … and a little more grounded. That, in short, they might have been other than exactly what Adam expected his best chums to be.

But what of it? They liked each other and they liked themselves just fine, ta very much. Why on earth would have they chosen to be anything else?

And as for Adam himself? Well, he could have been quite different indeed. He could have been raised in sterile luxury. He could have had parents who ignored him. He could have had a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other, constantly whispering to him of world conquest and universal compassion. He could have been torn apart between competing binary choices, fractured by the press of incompatible opposites. 

But he wasn’t. He was just himself, exactly as he wished to be. Everything was the way he wanted. Everything he knew was _good_. Great. Positively wicked, in fact.

What benefit would it have been to him, to any of Them, to know of both good _and_ evil? Would it have been worthwhile to learn of disappearing rainforests? Nuclear proliferation? Waste, pollution, and greed? The cruelty of a harsh and broken planet, so unfriendly to children and dogs and whales and all other living things?

Fear, as it was, was just a game to Them, a delicious shiver when playing at witches, or pirates, or space aliens. Pain was only a skinned knee after falling off a bicycle; hunger just a seasoning, adding flavour to meals that would always be healthy and on time; illness a convenient stomach-ache during exams, at worst a summer cold. They had never been abused, or rejected, or lonely. No one they knew had ever died. 

Any _choice_ that could be offered to them would obviously have been much worse than living within the towering walls of Adam’s unconsciously perfect paradise. Obviously.

Until the morning that it wasn’t.

~o*0*o~

The three anthropomorphic projections of humanity’s fears were neither lucky nor unlucky. They just _were_.

Which is not to say that they didn’t find pleasure in being themselves. There was such honesty in violence; such purity in starvation; such intricacy in disease! Often one would visit the aftermath of another’s work, and near weep with wonder at the beauty of devastation.

While it was more usual, when a particular region required the attention of more than one entity, for their visits to be sequential, it wasn’t exactly uncommon for two of the Riders to join forces upon occasion. Sieges, for example, were a natural team-up for War and Famine. Similarly, biological weapons (despite the human conceit that new names implied new ideas) were an ancient tactic, and allowed War and Pestilence to work together as smoothly as blankets and smallpox. However, opportunities for all three to meet, Red and Black and White together, were few and far between.9

The three of them hadn’t been together since the 1930s, when Pestilence had almost retired in despair over the widespread adoption of medical antibiotics. Fortunately, War had reminded zir that human greed continually brought humanity into contact with new virus strains, for which there were no effective cures; and Famine (who still felt a little guilty about the whole moldy bread thing) offered to split halfsies on all new poisons. 

But this occasion was different. This one was _special_. It bid fair to be not only their very last ride, but the very culmination of their careers. A certain atmosphere of festive solemnity hung over the service area parking lot, oily smoke still trickling from the sullen ruins of the Little Chef where they had met up.10

War reached over her shoulder to pat fondly the pommel of the huge sword strapped across her back. Despite the density of the scarlet leather sheath, fine frosted cracks were already stealing from the seams, and dark moisture beaded at the bottom tip. “I like these steeds,” she grinned, kicking the tyre of her carmine motorcycle. “Cheaper to feed, and much easier on the buttocks.”

“Don’t be vulgar,” admonished Famine. He carefully secured a gleaming set of scales in his elegant sleek sable saddlebag. “Although I do agree that these vehicles exude a certain … presence.” 

Pestilence was silent, as was zir wont, but zir shrug was eloquent. Zie slung a battered crown over the pitted chrome sissy bar of their own dirty white vehicle and sat astride, gripping the handlebars impatiently.

The Black Rider raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t we wait for our lord to join us?”

White swept zir arms around the lot.

“Zie’s right, you know,” Red argued. “He’s already here. Ish. And there, as well. You know he’s watching, at least. Gets around, he does.”

“I still would prefer his _corporeal_ presence…” Black demurred.

“He _will_ be,” Red insisted. “But what’s more important right now is our young Master. He’s coming into his own at last. It’s time for him to set us free.”

White crossed zir arms and shook zir head.

“Fair enough,” Red went on. “It’s not like we haven’t always been _free_. Ish. But, well, there have been … _limits_ on what we could do. The Master doesn’t _like_ limits.”

White grinned, a display unpleasantly yellowed and wet.

Slowly, Black smiled as well, showing needle-sharp teeth. “Very well, then. So now, we ride.”

Notes:

1\. On occasion, Anathema tried very hard not to remember that her name literally meant “a formal curse, or abhorrent thing.” The rest of the time, she leaned right into it.  Back

2\. Either averting Armageddon, or possibly ensuring that it happen on schedule. Interpretations differed. Back

3\. Also useful as a bread knife.  Back

4\. Which is not to say that Agnes Nutter was the only person ever correctly to perceive the future. The gift of true prophecy was one that neither Heaven nor Hell could bestow, but an extremely rare (although totally natural) side-effect of the random reshuffling of human genetics some hundreds of millions of times. There was at least one other completely accurate seer, a young man by name of Cotocleth; but unfortunately (for him), he lived in the fourth century after Creation, well before even pictographic literacy was dreamed up. His precise and detailed visions of such wonders as airplanes and computers and Marmite were therefore not only never recorded, but utterly incomprehensible to both the prophet5 and those to whom he incessantly recounted them, until his untimely death at the hands of an enraged neighbor who wished that _the bloody twat would shut UP already about that bollocks future for just one minute_. Back

5\. Cotocleth did, however, have some vague understanding of Agnes’s fame and the fortune reaped from it by her descendants, and was quite bitter about the whole thing—although the foreknowledge that he would be remembered in this very footnote was of some small comfort.  Back

6\. She was mostly right, as it turned out. More young men should listen to their mothers.  Back

7\. It wouldn’t.  Back

8\. Newton Pulsifer was possibly the most _effable_ human on Earth.  Back

9\. The Fourth Rider, of course, was present always and everywhere. Technically.  Back

10\. It had been perfectly functional—well, as functional as a Little Chef _could_ be—when they had arrived; but a certain spillover from their presences had been inevitable. Most discerning motorists would agree that the modifications were, on the whole, an improvement.  Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, back to the regularly scheduled alternating viewpoints.


	11. O heavens and all waters throughout the heavens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Unfortunately all records had been lost, and their visit brought them nothing but a growing sense of panic and the gnawing awareness that if they_ had _found the child, Aziraphale had no plan about what to do next, and insufficient time to formulate one._
> 
> Things fall apart rather quickly, and Aziraphale is subjected to any number of upsetting discussions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how you look at your outline and think "Oh, that will be an easy short one, I'll bang it out over the weekend"?  
> And then it's two weeks and five thousand words later?

Aziraphale couldn’t deny that he had greatly enjoyed the past eleven years. It had all been delightful (to use a word to which he very rarely resorted) _fun_.

He had remembered more of his gardening skills than he had thought—not that the basic care of plants had changed very much in the last thousand years, or in the last six thousand, really, since he had shepherded that slowly creeping living parade out of the Eastern Gate. And, to be fair, the small army of under-gardeners and assistants hadn’t hurt.

But still, focusing his energies on such simple, repetitive, material tasks, tasks that were all about growth, about _life_ … it had been soothing. Almost a vacation, really. 

There had been the regular onslaught of human deaths, of course, but that had long since become part of the rhythm of his existence; in a way, it was … not exactly _comforting_ , no, but it was _familiar_ , and he had never wavered in his reverence for those memories he was honored to preserve. Only three occasions had been severe enough to require his physical witness: the tsunami (dreadful, and so unexpected!), and then a particularly nasty civil war, and oh! that horrible earthquake followed by an epidemic of cholera. Other than that, quite the relaxing, peaceful decade, on the whole.

And young Brujo was such a nice young boy! Perhaps a bit more, er, lively than Aziraphale preferred children to be, but hardly a surprise, what with the De Leóns so uninterested in their only child, and sweet little Brujito being the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Infinite Spire, etc. and all… except that he _wasn’t_ , was he, and perhaps that was for the best, he wasn’t sure that Crowley would have been able to bear watching her Hellchick becoming … well, Brujo hadn’t, and that was what was important.

And _that_ came very close to admitting the most dangerous truth: that the secret reason these past few years had been so special to the angel was all the time he had been able to spend with one particular demon. Thwarting her efforts to influence the child to Evil, yes, of course; but mostly by means of long afternoons in the embassy gardens, luncheons in the nursery, meandering conversations during naptime, surreptitious meetings on their days off, and quiet, relaxing evenings on the balcony, speaking of nothing in particular, watching the sun set over the trees, the last burning rays setting the nanny’s severe chignon ablaze, glowing even into the sweet coolness of the deepening twilight…

…Aziraphale was _not_ thinking about Crowley’s hair right now. _Not_ imagining reaching out to touch it gently, to feel if it were as warm as it looked. Stroking it, petting it, burying his fingers into the silky softness, tugging on it, loosening those pinned up coils, _yanking_ on the tumbled curls, drawing a pleased cry from the demon’s rounded lips …

… it most definitely did not _matter_ if Aziraphale had noticed the way that same demonic mouth would gentle into a certain crooked smile directed only towards him, that those raspy-rough accents took on a certain soft hunger only when speaking his name, that those jewel-bright golden eyes would darken into a certain flashing urgency only when they rested on him …

… and all this would have been so much _easier_ if he could just manage to keep locked away all such images, thoughts and feelings he had been strenuously ignoring, repressing, _denying_ for thousands of years, because they were horrifically perilous, they were disastrous, they were going to get Aziraphale into _so much trouble_ with Heaven Below, they were going to get Crowley utterly _destroyed_ by Hell Above…

… and the angel had a responsibility to humanity, a duty to all Creation, a solemn assignment from the Almighty Herself, and it was all going to go completely pear-shaped if he didn’t get a grip on himself and track down a misplaced Antichrist before all Hell— _and_ Heaven—broke loose by the weekend. _Priorities_. Yes.

Right now, he needed Crowley to focus on remembering every detail of that night in the Satanic nunnery eleven years ago. Unfortunate that all records had been lost—and the angel strove mightily not to tut-tut Hell’s sloppy approach to proper archival procedures—and their visit brought them nothing1 but a growing sense of panic and the gnawing awareness that if they _had_ found the child, Aziraphale had no plan about what to do next, and insufficient time to formulate one.

On the drive back to London, the angel reviewed the disappointingly few options left open to them. Crowley’s terrifying driving habits weren’t exactly conducive to careful thought.2 “I suppose you couldn’t … you know …simply _eliminate_ the, er, problem?” he suggested half-heartedly.

Crowley turned on him an expression dripping with all the contempt those feeble words deserved. “After centuries of your sanctimonious lectures, do you actually have the enormous brass clappers to suggest that _I_ straight-up murder an innocent _child_?”

“No, no, of course not, please _watch where you’re driving_ ,” Aziraphale protested automatically. “But … well … is he actually an innocent? I mean, _technically_?”

“Aziraphale,” the demon growled. “Not another word. Not to me. You want him killed, get _your_ people to do it.”

“But we’re the nice ones!”

“Don’t even _start_ on …”

“Oh, my goodness, do you feel that?” the angel interrupted. He surveyed the nearby rolling fields and woodlands that looked exactly the same as every other rolling field and woodland in an admittedly picturesque region of Oxfordshire. “Such _love_ …”

It was at just that moment that there was a bump and a grinding noise, and a body hurtled across the windshield, as a velocipede hit the car (as Crowley insisted.)

Fortunately, no harm was done to either the Lotus Elan or to the rider, or at least none that could not be easily repaired. Miss Device turned out to be a very interesting individual indeed. To start with, she was quite suspicious, which—while perfectly justifiable for an attractive young woman on her own encountering two unknown man-shaped beings in a lonely place at night4—was not at all anything to which Aziraphale had been accustomed. The overwhelming sensations of safety and welcome and indefinable _goodness_ he projected usually led to quite the opposite. The angel had far too often had to discourage random strangers from spontaneously entrusting into his care their valuables, children, affections, and embarrassing personal confidences.

But Miss Device, after giving each of them a penetrating glare over her round tortoise-shell spectacles, not only backed warily away from Crowley, but uttered an audible frightened _gasp_ upon bumping into Aziraphale. It had taken all of the angel’s not-quite-human reassurances (and a pleading look at the demon) to convince the young lady to climb awkwardly into the back seat and perch there in a tense fashion whilst being driven back to her lodgings.

Nonetheless, she had left behind in the vehicle (inadvertently, surely, but possibly _ineffably_ ) an item more infinitely valuable than any a human had gifted him before. 

Aziraphale had heard of _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter_ , of course; but he certainly had never expected to lay hands upon a copy. He hadn’t entirely believed that any copies had survived, although there had been rumours for centuries. It was rather the Holy Grail of a very specialized subset of antiquarian book collectors5, all of whom would have recognized immediately the name “A. Z. Fell”, and most of whom would have cursed vigorously upon hearing it.

So it was no surprise that Aziraphale instantly recognized the volume he held. It was also not particularly odd that he was very likely the being on earth best equipped to interpret the contents thereof. This was no insult to the generations of Agnes’s descendants, many of whom were brilliant scholars and more than a little uncanny in their own right, and who had made it their life’s work to study and interpret the prophetess’s writings. It was simply that the angel was an entirely different order of clever (not necessarily superior, just _other_ ) who had by this point devoted hundreds of lifetimes to understanding the many ways humans had expressed their inexplicable flashes of intuition in clumsy written words. It also helped that he was intimately familiar with seventeenth-century patterns of thinking and writing, and had an ethereal certainty of the referents of all fulfilled prophecies, and a shrewd guess as to the rest. 

And, of course, he had the inestimable additional asset of profound, detailed knowledge of Agnes Nutter herself.

Not that he had ever personally met her; but he certainly _remembered_ her. Under normal circumstances, he would have never presumed to take advantage of his unparalleled access to human lives this way; but in this case, he had express permission—one might even go so far as to call it _instructions_ —from the lady herself. It was the first prophecy he had laid eyes upon, after he prepared for himself an anticipatory cocoa, donned his conservator’s gloves, and reverently opened the codex at random: _O Hevvenlie Missioned, Thou charged wif manifolde Name, I sholde thank thee thatte Thou forgettest not myne. Yette thou’rt nowt butte a fethyred Foole an Thou failst to call uppon me in direft Need, even unto ye Ende of thye Worlde_.6

At any rate, it did not take more than four cups of cocoa and twelve hours of intense reading, calculating, cross-referencing, and rummaging about for his elegant brass surveying compass, before Aziraphale was fairly certain that he had deduced the missing Antichrist’s name, address, and shoe size.7

The question was what to do with this information.

Obviously, he should report directly to Heaven. The End was just about as Nigh as it could possibly get, and the amassed Host would definitely want updated intel as to where, precisely, all this would occur. Besides, once he _explained_ about the Antichrist, and the likelihood that he was simply a normal boy in need of a little positive guidance and support, and it wasn’t really necessary to resort to all-out Creation-destroying _war_ when earnest conversation might well do the job just as easily… well, surely it was just a matter of contacting the appropriate authorities, that was all.

There wasn’t any need to share this information with Crowley.

Crowley cared for the world. Crowley was fond of humanity. Crowley wanted to avert Armageddon. Aziraphale was as sure of the demon’s motivations as he was of his own Names. But there was no going around the fact that Crowley _was_ a demon, with his own allegiances and obligations. Crowley might very well feel that his duty to Hell overrode his own personal inclinations (Hell was all in favour of selfishness in general, but not when it conflicted with their own interests). And the angel certainly didn’t have any confidence in the general reasonableness and benevolence of the infernal hierarchy.

Aziraphale was going to have to lie.

Well, not _lie_ , exactly. Just not tell the whole truth. Or possibly, any of the truth.

This was not going to be a pleasant meeting at all.

~o*0*o~

That … could have gone better. 

They had met early at the old bandstand, before hardly anyone else was about. The conversation had started out well enough. Crowley hadn’t expected the angel to have tracked down the missing boy; he only asked about it in the spirit of a scribe doggedly tittling every jot (not that an iota originally _had_ such a mark, but Aziraphale wasn’t going to let that get in the way of a good metaphor). 

No, the demon had given up on finding the Antichrist, seemed to have already moved beyond any hope of preventing Armageddon. Instead, he had begun to work on alternatives. Unfortunately, as Aziraphale had to admit, Crowley was … not the _best_ at making plans.

Right now he was gesticulating wildly at the sky. “Big universe out there! When all of this ends up a puddle of melting goo, we can go off together!”

“Go off … together?” Oh, Crowley was truly a master of temptation. For one glorious moment, the angel could imagine it all too well: No Heaven, with their condescension and demands. No Hell, with their tortures and threats. No humanity, no endless, crushing responsibility, no _death._ Just an angel and demon, a beautiful, brilliant, blazing, _brave_ demon, a demon who dared to throw off the handcuffs of unpalatable predestination ... a demon who, every time he looked at Aziraphale, would see the coward who gave up. Who ran away. “Listen to yourself. You’re being ridiculous.” He squeezed his fingers together to avoid wringing them. “I’m sure that once I get in touch with the right people and explain everything…”

“Explain _what_? This is exactly what they have been panting for since the First Rebellion, angel! There _are_ no right people. Downstairs, Upstairs … when have they shown anything but _contempt_ for this world?”

“The Almighty has assured me that we are all Her beloved children.”

“Who She isn’t talking to anymore!”

“That doesn’t mean that She isn’t _listening_. I will have a word with the Almighty, and the Almighty will fix it.”

“And when that doesn’t happen?” Crowley gave an inarticulate shriek of frustration. “How long have we been friends, Aziraphale? Six thousand years? But I guess this was _your_ Great Blasted Plan all along. Once Gabriel blows that blessed trumpet, great pustulant mangled bollocks to everything we’ve done, everything we’ve shared, it’s going to be all _get thee behind me, foul fiend_ ; you’re just going to fall in, grab your sword, and start with the smiting.” Crowley crossed his arms with a bitter sneer. “Oh, wait, you don’t _have_ a sword anymore, do you?”

“Oh, _are_ we friends, then?” Aziraphale hissed in startled hurt. “Right now I don’t even like you.” He stood very straight and slowly, deliberately, straightened his lapels, tugged at his waistcoat, rearranged his bowtie. “But I forgive you.”

“No, you d-d-don’t. _Unforgivable_ , that-t-t-t’s what-t I am.” The demon slammed his talons into a support post, leaving deep gouges. Then he re-settled his sunglasses on his face, making a visible effort to get his temper under control. “Look, I’m sorry. Apologise. Whatever I said, I apologise for it, all right? I’ll get the car, we’ll just leave, head for the stars…”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Crowley, I am starting to think that you don’t know me at all. Do you believe that all this is just a, a _hobby_ for me? That after all six millennia of protecting and guarding, I’m simply going to … abandon humanity to their fate?” 

“Fine _fine_ fineFINE! You gotta watch them all die, go ahead!” Crowley pointed to a distant path, where the park’s regular visitors were beginning to appear. “See that guy jogging? He’s dead. That woman, with the pram? Dead. The kids by the ice cream cart? Dead, dead, dead. Open your eyes, open _all_ your eyes, take a good look. They’re dead, okay, they’re _dead_ , or as good as. Everyone you see. Everyone you don’t see. Everyone alive on this cosmic joke of a forsaken planet, they’re ALL DEAD. You’ve bloody _witnessed_. Your job’s over. Done. Time to retire. Time to _go_.”

“That’s not how it works, Crowley. That’s not my … that’s not who I _am_. You should know better than that.”

The demon’s lips tightened. Then he shrugged. “All right. Yeah. Me, I’m gonna take my wine, my car, my … my CDs, and get the Heaven out of here. Have a nice doomsday.”

Aziraphale forced a stiff nod. “Yes. Well. Might as well take my wine cellar as well, then. Would you like a book or two for the journey?”

Crowley whirled furiously. “Fuck! Let all your bloody books burn with the rest of it!” And then he strode off, without looking back. 

So … that was not a successful conversation. Aziraphale had come back to his bookshop furious, and hurt, and desperately afraid. But he also felt a shameful overwhelming _relief_. Crowley was leaving. Crowley would be out of it. Crowley would be … well, not _safe_ , the angel was doubtful that there was any corner of the cosmos remote enough not to be swept up in the event of the Apocalypse; but if the worst occurred, and Aziraphale couldn’t persuade Heaven to call the whole thing off, at least he wouldn’t have to look across the battle lines and see his dearest enemy standing there. 

It was for the best, really.

It wouldn’t come to that.

Still, Aziraphale hesitated a moment, then picked up Agnes Nutter’s prophecies. He straightened all of his notes and conclusions into a tidy sheaf, and tucked them in the back of the book. He reached into an alternate, invisible plane, tugged gently, winced, and carefully placed the gleaming obsidian feather that appeared in his hand inside the volume, marking one specific passage. He placed the tome back atop the clutter of his desk with a tiny blessing. 

Then he sighed deeply, and got to work. 

A snap of his fingers locked the door to the shop, shuttered the windows, and extinguished all artificial lights. Another snap lit one fat candle on a low table; like all angels, Aziraphale could see perfectly well in the dark, but some of these sigils were tricky, and it wouldn’t do at all to make a mistake. He rolled up the dusty threadbare rug to reveal a complicated pattern engraved on the floor beneath. He fetched a pitcher of water from the kitchenette, making a series of hand gestures while muttering under his breath. Then, with utmost care, he dribbled the blessed water8 along the lines and loops of the design. He set the now-empty jug aside, folded his hands, cast his eyes downward reverently, and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. The summoning pattern sank into the floorboards, and seemed to carry the dim candlelight with it. A shimmering void opened in the middle, rippling and swirling with a darkness within darkness, a sweet damp fragrance coalescing within, forming the apparition of an kindly lined face, one limned not in light or color but in scent and taste.

“Aziraphale, Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate,” the spectre intoned, in wine-tinged tones of burning oak leaves and Belgian dark chocolate. “We have been impatient for your return.”

“Er, hello,” the angel responded, his corporation limiting him to conversing with air whistled over fluctuating vocal cords. “I’d like speak to the Almighty, if you please.”

“I am the Metatron,” the other answered. “I serve as the Voice of the Almighty.”

(“I _know_ ,” Aziraphale muttered, but very softly.)

“The Great Plan reaches its culmination. Heaven requires you home.”

“Yes, well, about that. I think, well, that is to say, that … I know where the Antichrist is.”

“Hogback Wood, Village of Tadfield, Oxfordshire, England, Great Britain, United Kingdom, Earth, Sol System, Milky Way, The Universe, the Mind of God.”

“Oh. You knew?” the angel squeaked in surprise. 

“I _am_ the Metatron.”

“Ah. Of course. Jolly good.” Aziraphale re-grouped. “Then you must also know that there doesn’t need to be a war. We can work this out. Peaceably, I mean. There doesn’t have to be boiling seas, stars falling, annihilation of Creation, all that … untidiness.”

“The Hosts of Heaven must meet and defeat the Hordes of Hell. It has been written. That is the Great Plan.”

“Er, yes, but I think that perhaps … are you _quite_ sure that I can’t speak directly to the Almighty?” The angel clasped his hands together more tightly. “It would be simply _dreadful_ if there were to be, well, a _mistake_.”

“There is no mistake, Principality. There is no more time.” The faintest whiff of impatience, like overripe apples and impending thunder, wafted from the Metatron. “You shall return now. It is _written_.”

“Oh dear. Oh dear,” Aziraphale fretted. “Just … I need to … prepare. Tie off a few loose ends, as it were. If I might …”

Without warning the void in the floor exploded with the exact opposite of a _flash_ , and swallowed the angel in its dark vortex. Just as quickly it contracted, slamming shut with a metaphysical shudder that nonetheless caused the entire bookshop to tremble. The candle, still burning, toppled to the floor.

The echo of an aggrieved “Oh, _fuck_!” seemed to linger faintly in the sudden emptiness.

~o*0*o~

“Ah, Aziraphale. So glad you could join us.” Gabriel’s voice was redolent of cloying floral odors and patronizing affability.

It had been a long time since Aziraphale had been Down to Heaven, and he frankly hadn’t missed it. The _idea_ of it, certainly; the Heaven of his heart’s recall, very much. But Heaven as it had been reorganized, reconfigured, redecorated … the darkness was very nice, and the quiet, and the cool; but without the constant reassuring hum of Her loving attention, he found himself longing for the heat and colours and overall busyness of Earth.

Also, the whole plane smelled vaguely of antiseptic cleaner, which made him sneeze.

“Good lord! Aziraphale, have you brought your _corporation_ with you? Whatever _for_?” And that would be Michael; brisk, contemptuous, and scented with avalanches and stormclouds, as always.

“I beg your pardon, but I wasn’t exactly given time to prepare myself for a visit,” Aziraphale retorted, a bit more testily than was probably wise.

“Six thousand years wasn’t long enough?” sneered Sandalphon. Oh, there was the charged electrical fragrance of a barely banked smiting.

“I was _busy_ ,” snapped the Principality. Then he remembered he was supposed to be persuading the archangels into a more peaceful resolution. “The human race is a complex and wondrous creation. They require delicate interventions and the utmost concentration. It would be a dreadful shame if—”

“Yes, yes, we’ve all read your reports,” Gabriel cut in. “Fortunately for everyone, that’s not going to be a problem anymore.”

“It isn’t a problem,” Aziraphale assured him earnestly. “It’s—”

“Not _your_ problem,” Gabriel interrupted again. “Nobody’s problem, dewdrop.” Gabriel seemed not to notice Aziraphale’s flinch at the demeaning nickname.9 “That little sideshow is over, and it’s time for the main act to take the ring.10 And _you_ are just the lucky angel who gets a spotlight at center stage.”

“What? No, Gabriel, I just want to do my duty, you know, protect, defend.” There _must_ be a way to make them understand. “You’ve been up there, you’ve spoken to them, you have to know… Please, if I can just speak to the Almighty for _one moment_ …”

Gabriel rolled his eyes, the odor of rose and violet attar sickly sweet. “Will you just shut your stupid mouth and let them die already?”

Uriel chose to weigh in at this point, heavy with sage and sandalwood. “Why are we wasting time with this one? We already know that he has been …” zie wrinkled zir nose “ _complicit_ with demons.”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped. “No, no, no, you’ve got it all wrong, never fraternized in my life, only thwarting, you know that wily shrike, really keeps me on my toes, I can tell you…”

Gabriel ignored this babbling and spoke directly to Uriel. “It doesn’t matter at this point. It’s written that the Guardian of the Eastern Gate will be present. Don’t ask me why.” He considered Aziraphale, his old-fashioned suit doing nothing to hide his comfortable softness, and narrowed his eyes in disgust. “Maybe because he screwed up at the Beginning. There’ll be some kind of metaphysical closure to putting in the vanguard for the End.”

“You can’t very well have an End without a Beginning,” Sandalphon intoned piously.

The deep purple archangel laughed. “Very good, Sandalphon. _You can’t have an End without a Beginning_. I’ll have to remember that.” He turned back to Aziraphale, his smile extinguished like it had never been. “Got that? You’re with us, dewdrop, and we’re turning the world inside out. There’s no stopping it at all.” He cocked his head, the mock-ingratiating expression making a sudden reappearance. “Which reminds me, that ice sword of yours?”

Oh dear. Aziraphale hadn’t thought this conversation could possibly get any _worse._ “Er. Well, I don’t have it _on_ me. But of course I can lay my hands on it. In a trice.”

“Great. Just fetch it out and bring it along then.”

“Yes. Directly.” Aziraphale briefly screwed his eyes shut in panic. “When we get there, I mean. But …” he opened his eyes again and tried to look eager. “It’s a _very_ Holy Weapon, you know. What shall I need it _for_?”

Gabriel crouched down and grinned directly into the Principality’s face. “Come and see.” 

Notes:

1\. Except for a rather exciting interlude during which an infuriated demon had shoved Aziraphale against a wall, and the angel abruptly recalled the form the other had worn when they first met, all tearing claws and rapacious beak, and the slightest smile ghosted over Aziraphale’s mouth as he gazed in those glowing predatory eyes; but then there was a most _fortunate_ interruption, and he was left with only the frustrated acknowledgment that it was probably just as well.  Back

2\. Aziraphale would never admit it, but he actually found the demon’s lovingly preserved convertible to be splendidly sleek and stylish, and secretly wondered if riding in it with the top down lent even a stodgy old angel passenger a certain dash.3 That didn’t mean he enjoyed travelling at reckless speeds down winding country lanes at night without the lights on, just to “maintain the aesthetic.” Back

3\. It didn’t.  Back

4\. And also an admirably sensible reaction to encountering any number of demons, anywhere, at any time. Not that humans in general ever reacted _sensibly_ to Crowley. Back

5\. The Holy Grail itself was safely and anonymously ensconced in a small, rarely-visited Turkish historical museum, amidst a clutter of dullish everyday earthenware pottery of similar provenance. There was no particular reason for it to have survived at all, except that Mums tend to have a sentimental attachment to the oddest souvenirs, much to their Children’s eternal embarrassment.  Back

6\. This particular prophecy was universally held among the family to be a scathing jibe directed at Witchfinder Major Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery Pulsifer and his untimely demise.  Back

7\. 8Y, for the record.  Back

8\. Not Holy Water, not _technically_ , but certainly more pure and virtuous and a bit more sanctimonious than water in general tended to be.  Back

9\. He noticed, _of course_ Gabriel noticed, that’s why he kept using it.  Back

10\. Aziraphale winced again at the infelicitous metaphor, but didn’t say anything. Crowley _would_ have said something, probably something like “Oh, you mean the clown car?” That’s one of the reasons Aziraphale was still allowed down in Heaven, while Crowley got to ride a rocketship on a collision course with the Boiling Sulphur Spa. Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the interest of keeping this fic within the bounds of (my) sanity, I'm not bringing up all the other stuff going on which is functionally unchanged from canon. So Anathema/Newt, Adam's slowly disintegrating grip on normality, krakens, Atlantis, etc. assume it's all going on in the background.  
> (Not Madame Tracy and Shadwell, though. Sorry, loves, you get to sit out this AU)  
> 
> 
> Also, if it isn't clear by now, this world has significantly different geopolitical and cultural arrangements. It doesn't affect the story much, but I had to work it all out nonetheless in my head. So, if you are dying to know this world's version of, I dunno, NATO or ABBA, drop me a question in the comments and I'll natter on endlessly.


	12. All winds and fire and heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All-righty then. Crowley had a plan now. He could make this work. He was sure of it._   
>  _At least until he stepped into the lift to go down and fetch his car._
> 
> Crowley isn’t having a particularly good day either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Fire, minor character death
> 
> No footnotes on this chapter because Crowley is one Big Mood this entire chapter and none of his DRAMATIC FEELS deserve to be left lurking at the end of the text.

Crowley was furious.

No, he was terrified.

All right, he was furious _and_ terrified. And guilt-ridden and heartbroken and conflicted as fuck. But mostly furious.

He’d put himself out there. Asked Aziraphale to run off with him. Apologised. Exposed his throat in a way that would have gotten it slit up in Hell. And his (not _his_ , never _his_ , that was bloody clear now) the angel hadn’t even cared enough to slip in the shiv.

( _Right now I don’t even like you._ )

And, okay, he got it, he _got_ it. ( _You don’t know me at all_.) Aziraphale took his angelic responsibilities very seriously. And not just because She assigned them; at the core, it was because he thought they were worth doing. It’s one of the things Crowley admired about him. It’s one of the things that he _loved_ about him. It was rank hypocrisy for the demon to be angry that Aziraphale made his duty to humanity his highest priority.

It’s not like Crowley expected the angel to prioritise _him_. What, after all, did a demon know about having a worthwhile purpose? He hated his job… well, not his _job_ , exactly, that could be interesting, and creative, and even _fun_ ; what he hated was the intent behind each assignment to pile suffering upon humans who were already quite miserable enough on their own, thank you. It was the sort of thing that made a demon want to turn every mission into a spectacle of half-arsed faffing about, and every report into a pack of self-aggrandizing lies.

The only purpose Crowley had ever thought worth his best efforts was one he had assigned himself five thousand years ago.

He had seen how it had tortured Aziraphale to witness the near-extinction of Earthly life, and that was well before he had even understood how, exactly, the angel was processing all those human deaths. He had seen it through the millennia, every disaster and catastrophe and massacre, the burden of weariness and despair and grief and doubt that kept being laden upon the angel. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what kind of damage would be inflicted in the total destruction of the entire Creation. 

Hadn’t Crowley long ago sworn that never again would Aziraphale have to experience that weight alone? Hadn’t he changed his own name to mark the solemnity of that vow? What was he doing, to even _think_ of running off and leaving Aziraphale to face the Apocalypse on his own?

No. He’d go back to the bookshop, that’s what he’d do. Apologise again. Bring pastries. If he couldn’t drag him out past Alpha Centauri, he’d figure out some way to tempt the angel into fulfilling his blessed responsibilities somewhere remote on Earth, somewhere _safe_. Maybe the Himalayas; the peak of Qomolangma was usually empty this time of year. Convince Aziraphale that it would be the ideal spot to bloody _witness_. Appeal to his fussy obligation to do the thing properly...

All-righty then. Crowley had a plan now. He could make this work. He was sure of it.

At least until he stepped into the lift to go down and fetch his car.

Elevator music was not one of Crowley’s inventions. (He might have been a fiend from Hell, but he had _standards_.) And he certainly wouldn’t have permitted such an abomination in his own building. Yet there it was, some smoothed-over Scandinavian synth-pop, assaulting his ears, causing the hinge of his jaw to vibrate nastily, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if the whole set-up wasn’t spritzing some artificial strawberry stink into the confined space, just to make the whole experience as vile as possible. 

It was entirely expected, therefore, when the lead singer had switched in the middle of a particularly emo whine about _loving a shadow-woman_ to a familiar guttural grunt. “Oh, Crowlith, Crowlith, what ‘ave you been playin’ at?”

“Hastur.” That’s what happened when he broke his personal rule and got up before noon. Just gave the day all sorts of opportunities to go to shite. “What’s the news from the Big Avocado?”

“Wasn’t Lord Lucifer’s boy, Crowlith. No Hellhound. No voices. And he said … he said … he said that I smelled like _mierda_.”

“Well, you _do_ , Hastur,” Crowley pointed out. “You were showing off your new cologne at the last staff meeting.”

“Yeah, but he said it like it was a _bad_ thing, Crowlith. This ain’t the Antichrist we’re looking for.”

“No? Well, you know what they say about best-laid plans and all that.” Crowley affected unconcern. “He’s the Adversary, the Destroyer of Kings, etc., etc., he can say what he likes.”

“It ain’t him, I’m tellin’ ya. We know you’ve been up to something, Shrike.”

“Of course I’ve been up to something. Lots of things. Thing City. I’m a _demon_ , Hastur. Funny old world if I weren’t.” 

“Yeah, I mean something … not evil. We heard rumours in Hell. Stories. We got _pictures_ now. Me and Ligur gonna come round, ‘ave a chat wi’ ya, you’re gonna tell us _all about_ wot you done. You and your pretty black-winged boyfriend.”

 _What_? Oh, _bugger_. No _no_ no, don’t panic, play it cool, you’ve prepared for this… “My boy—? Oh, _that_. Nah, that’s a perfectly legit temptation. Check with Dagon, I filed the paperwork ages ago.”

“Riiiiiggght.” Hastur chuckled evilly (not that he ever laughed any other way.) “Dagon’s the one wot set us on it. You can explain it all to me and my mate when we get there.” He sniggered again, and the music abruptly switched back to the singer explaining that _having everything was the same as having nothing_ , and really, _there had to be something more to life than this_.

Crowley couldn’t disagree. The second the lift doors opened onto the ground floor, he mashed the buttons to return to his penthouse level, then snapped his fingers to encourage a little extra speed.

Once he was safely inside his flat, physical locks and extra wards engaged, he slowed down, took a few gratuitous deep breaths. A rushed mistake was exactly what he didn’t need right now. With exaggerated care he spun the dial on his concealed safe. Donning thick rubber gloves and a welder’s apron, he picked up a pair of grilling tongs in order to extract an ordinary-looking thermos, midnight blue with thin golden pinstripes.

He set the thermos down next to the elaborate sunken pool that dominated his living room. Technically, his floor shouldn’t have born the weight of the installation, and the insurance would never have permitted the risk of leaks. But the demon had no intention of leaving his koi behind, not after the centuries he had spent on getting them just the way he liked, and the petty demands of physics and real estate lawyers were problems for other people. So he had his state-of-the-art indoor fishpond, complete with filtration system, heating elements, lily pads. and meditation stones. He had spent uncounted hours feeding, cleaning, cross-breeding, and just staring at their soothing undulations.

The carp shivered as his shadow fell over the water. (Consistent discipline was key to successful care). Most of them were properly demonic looking, of course, with bulbous eyes and sinister whiskers, sporting his signature colors: moonlight pale hikari, white tancho with their scarlet cap, yamabuki and bekko flashing as yellow as his eyes; even the yamatonishiki echoed his own markings in avian form. But his favourites were the unique variety of kin ki utsuri, one he jealously kept from any other collector, sinuous and elegant in a gleaming lacquered black, studded with delicate golden markings reminiscent of eyes.

“Sorry, guys,” he whispered. The fish trembled at the unaccustomed gentleness in his tone. “This _shouldn’t_ hurt you, but you never … well, it isn’t going to be fun.” With exquisite care he unscrewed the cap of the thermos, and poured the contents into the pool. He draped a clean tarp over the whole, smoothed it flat, and miracled it to mimic the pattern of the grey cement floor. Only then did he strip off the gloves and apron, kick them into a distant corner, head over to adjoining office, and arrange himself upon his ostentatious throne.

Just before the front door slammed off its hinges.

“Crooo-o-owlith!” Ligur sing-songed. “We just want to chat a bit.”

 _Crowley_ , he thought in disgust. _It’s been five thousand years, guys_. “In here,” he answered, deadpan. These two were Dukes of Hell. In terms of power, he was far outclassed. As far as strategy went, he was sure that the pair hadn’t one brain cell to share between them.

True to form, his infernal visitors bulled straight through the great room on their way to his office. Between the disguised tarp, the dim light, and their dismal lack of imagination, it obviously never crossed their minds that there might be something in the large empty space right in the middle. Not until Ligur tripped on the concrete lip and fell heavily into the pond. 

There was a loud splash, but unfortunately the tarp caught most of it. Enough, anyhow, that the spray completely missed Hastur. 

Who immediately began screaming, a high, nerve-wracking screech. The demonic avatar (a pinacate beetle) clinging to his white shock of hair canted forward in panic and squirted a noxious stinking spray from its abdomen. Thank _Someone_ that Ligur (rapidly dissolving into a sizzling puddle of demonic goo) forewent adding to the cacophony.

“Holy Water! I can’t believe you used Holy Water! He hadn’t done nothing to you!” Hastur shrieked.

“Yet,” Crowley noted, after sauntering to the office doorway to survey the wreckage. He waved a languid hand. “Hi.”

“That was _out of line_ , you… you… traitor! Armageddon or no Armageddon, once Hell hears of this, you’re one dead pigeon!” The Duke of Hell gibbered. “And don’t you think you can run to that angel of yours. Heaven knows _all_ about him. You’re done for, both of you!”

“In that case,” Crowley remarked to nobody in particular, “might as well take some company with me.” He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms lazily. “You surely don’t think that was everything I had, Hastur. I always say, if you’ve got to go, go with _style_.”

“You’re … you’re bluffing.” Hastur didn’t sound very convinced. Crowley supposed that the maniacal grin on his face might have something to do with that.

“Am I?” Crowley snapped his fingers, and a small sphere of Hellfire bloomed in his palm. “Ask yourself: do I feel lucky?” He flicked the flame upwards, towards the fancy sensors installed in the ceiling. 

Hastur shrieked again, but was nearly drowned out by the blare of the fire alarm. He vanished, leaving behind a foul miasma of panic and rage, just as the sprinkler system kicked in. 

Crowley closed his eyes, sagging for a moment in relief against the wall. Then his eyes shot open in horror. _Aziraphale._ He gazed for a moment at the mess of his flat, the floor a death trap, soaked with the residue of expired demon and mingled with Holiness. Then he spun around back into the office and opened the window. It’s not like an eight-story fall was going to _kill_ him.

Crowley’s Mayfair flat was less than a mile from the bookshop, but what with London traffic, he could usually walk faster than he could drive (not that he ever would, the Lotus Elan would never have forgiven him). Today, however, the trip to Soho seemed to take longer than the timeless eternity before the Creation of the world. The demon tried to ignore the sirens and lights that grew more numerous as he approached. It was fine, it was _fine_ , there were always fires in the city, and surely more now that the gradual unravelling of reality characteristic of an approaching Apocalypse was beginning to spread across the world.

He almost managed to convince himself until he skidded into a haphazard impromptu parking spot across from A. Z. Fell’s and saw the roaring flames licking through the windows. 

_Please, Someone, Anyone, let him not be too late_.

He leapt out of the car without bothering to open the door or even turn off the engine, and all but sprinted up the steps. Some idiot human in uniform tried to stop him from entering, but Crowley brushed past him with a snarl.

_It was unthinkable that he might be too late._

He burst through the doors. “ _Aziraphale!_ ” Flames raged across varnished wooden shelves overflowing with ancient paper and parchment. Black smoke and floating embers swirled through the stifling air. Was this Hellfire? He didn’t think so, not now; but the angel would _never_ have permitted any ordinary fire to damage his precious collection. He frantically extended every sense, physical and occult, to detect an ethereal presence, but only encountered a horrible emptiness. “Where are you? I can’t find you!” A blast from a firehose slammed into him, knocking off his sunglasses, hurling him across the width of the shop, choking his eyes and nose and mouth with the intolerable divine element. 

He howled in pain and frustration. “ _Bastards_!” He didn’t know if he was cursing the firefighters, Heaven, or Hell. Or maybe himself. “You killed him!”

 _He was too late_.

“Bast-t-t-tards. All of you.” Less of wail, now. More of a choking sob, wrenched from some jagged broken hollowness within his essence, now damned twice-over. “He’s gone. He’s _gone_.”

No. Not entirely gone. There was something …

Crowley lurched to his knees, and crawled across the burning floor to the inferno of Aziraphale’s desk. There was a vaguely familiar book, and within it …

A feather. A single black feather, pristine and gleaming and smelling of strong tea, ink, and petrichor.

The sulphurous keen that ripped from Crowley’s throat was too alien to be perceived by human ears. 

All the way down the street, glass storefronts exploded. The firefighters faltered for a moment and nearly dropped the squirming hose. A police officer instinctively slapped a hand against his hip, where in another life a weapon might have been holstered. The crowd of onlookers shuddered, and furtively slunk away.

Minutes later, Crowley re-emerged from the shop, book cradled against his chest, flames arching from his shoulders as if re-tracing the curves of his wings. He pulled a new pair of sunglasses from the ether and shoved them back on his face. He walked back to the car without glancing either to the left or right, looking like a demon on a mission.

~o*0*o~

Mission fucking accomplished.

Crowley had every intention of spending the last hours of the world so thoroughly pissed that the eventual literal End would register as nothing more than another blurry hallucination. After all, _his_ world was already over. What did anything else matter, without the angel?

He felt sorry for the humans, he supposed. Not much he could do for them. He wondered vaguely what would happen to their souls, their names, now that Aziraphale was no longer there to watch and to keep. He couldn’t believe that they wouldn’t all die soon, just the same, but would they all be … lost? Was there any way that a _demon_ could, what was it, “ _witness_ ”? He didn’t think so. The angel had never explained how it all worked, anyhow. 

Pity that. Aziraphale would've liked it if someone stepped in.

~o*0*o~

Liz hoped that she wasn’t going to have to step in.

She had had to deal with her share of weirdness in the five years she had run this place, and she had pinned the lanky ginger as trouble since he walked in two hours ago, all dripping wet flashy white outfit and streaked layers of dark soot. She’d taken him for blind at first, what with the dark glasses that never came off and the stiff stride that seemed to avoid stumbling into things by sheer miracle. Then she thought _car accident_ , maybe, explaining the clothes and the grime and the air of shock.

But it wasn’t any of her businesses, once he’d made it safely to a booth in the back. She worried a bit, after she’d brought the single malt he’d ordered. “I _said_ , the whole bloody bottle,” he’d growled, but she wasn’t his mam, she was the woman paid to keep the liquor coming, so she’d just fetched the bottle and went back to the bar. 

He’d sat there for over ninety minutes, just drinking in silence, and she’d begun to relax. The place was empty except for the two of them. She had thought briefly of calling in Teddy for backup, but custom was light, even for early on a Saturday, and if worse came to worst, she could take care of herself. She had her mobile out on the counter. She had her cosh hidden under the bar. She’d nothing against anyone drinking themselves unconscious in peace, especially not with as strange as these past few days had been.

Then he began to _talk_. Talking was never a good sign.

“I didn’t _want_ to be a demon, you know,” he confided as she set the third bottle of Talisker on the table. “It just …” he waved a hand upwards “happened.” Liz kept her face impassive. If she had wanted to listen to the personals of a bunch of randos, she’d have gone for the social work degree, now, wouldn’t she?

He made an attempt to pour more Scotch whisky into his glass, but after most of it sloshed onto table, he gave up and took a long pull direct from the bottle. “Just hanging out with some of the lads, asking questions, like you do, then all of a sudden, _boom!_ ” She raised an eyebrow, slightly alarmed. “Up you go, ever’body out the pool, don’t let the ceiling clip you on the wings on the way.” 

_Whatever_. She nodded, and attempted to move back to the bar. But Crowley forestalled her retreat by catching the loose material of her sleeve. “D’you think that-t-t’s why he don’t … _did-d-dn’t_ … you know?” She shrugged, and he let her escape.

“Didn’t want to love him, neither,” he muttered to liquor bottle, just before gulping down another mouthful. Liz knew a lie when she heard it. Not that she cared. “Not _my_ fault I was a shite friend. What’d he _expect_ , anyways?” He lay his head down on the table, curling his arm protectively around the whisky. “Wish I’d t-told him, though. Just-t once. Before …” he whispered. “No, that’s a lie. ‘Nother lie. Would never. Nobody wants to hear a love confession from a filthy d-demon.” 

He curled one leg beneath him, perching on the edge of the booth “ _Let all your bloody books burn_ ,” he shouted. “That-t’s what I said instead-d.” She frowned at him; she wasn’t having with any scenes in her place. Before she could come over, the man shook his head, and tapped his finger against his lips in an exaggerated shushing motion. “That,” he said much more quietly, “is the _very last thing_ I ever said to him.” He took another swallow and lapsed into blessed silence.

For a few minutes.

“Saved one. Just one. Soovenny… Sooben… Mem’ry Thingy.” He placed a charred volume on the table and patted it. Stroked it soothingly, like a frightened chick. “All’s that left. Just a book. And-d a feather.” He squeezed his eyebrows together, as if to force back tears, and opened the book to a page marked by a black plume.

And stared.

And stared.

Finally, he lifted his head and made an obvious effort to catch her eye. “Hey,” he said, in a raw voice. “Could you maybe c’mere a minute?”

“Another, sir?” she asked in a voice that had distinct overtones of _Am I going to have to call 999_?

“No, no, just …” She could almost hear his words bleeding. “I, er. Can’t read so good. Right now, I mean.” He was shaking all over. “Could you, uhh, read this to me?”

Anything was better than watching a man drink himself to death, she supposed. “Okay.” She squinted at the passage he was pointing at. “It looks a little funny…”

“It’s very old. Like, hundreds of years old.”

“Yeah, sure.” Slowly she read out loud, “ _GOE **,** Butcher-birde, thou sotten Foole! The Plaice is wrytten in Angelle’s Hande. Hell forbid and Flaymef barre, yet thy Principallitie livef, and shall haue Need of thee anon._” She pursed her lips. “Does that make any sense?”

He drew an unsteady breath. “Yeah. Yeah, actually it does.” He raked a trembling hand through his damp red hair, then made a face like someone passing a kidney stone.

“You all right?” she asked, meaning _Don’t die in my pub, arsehole_.

“Ohhh yeah. All right. Great, actually. Best day of my whole damned life.” He flashed her a sharp-toothed grin and stood like someone suddenly, terrifyingly, sober. He threw some money on the table and snatched up the book to his chest. “You the type to pray, Liz?”

 _How the Hell did he know my name_? “Not really, sir.”

“Good. Good for you. Whatever else you do today, don’t do _anything_ to attract any Heavenly notice. Got that? Ciao!” And with that cryptic admonition, he hustled out the door.

 _Huh. Well, that was a Thing_ , she thought. When she went to clean off the table, she found all three bottles completely full, and a five-hundred pound tip.


	13. Sun and moon and stars of the sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aziraphale had frankly expected something a little more … impressive._   
>  _Not a dingy, run-down little airfield in the middle of nowhere._   
>  _Although, he supposed, the End of The World was a sufficiently dramatic event as to make the setting irrelevant._
> 
> Angels and demons and humans and Antichrists and Horsepeople, oh my!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh. I’ve been waiting to write this chapter for over three months now.

Aziraphale had frankly expected something a little more … _impressive_. 

Not a dingy, run-down little airfield in the middle of nowhere.

Although, he supposed, the End of The World was a sufficiently dramatic event as to make the setting irrelevant.

“Hell isn’t here yet,” Gabriel noted (unnecessarily). “Looks like we got the jump on them.” He nudged Aziraphale. “It’s your big moment, dewdrop. Get out there and … do whatever you’re supposed to do.”

The Principality stepped forward hesitantly. He had _no idea_ what he was supposed to do, and his legs wobbled a bit as the weight of accumulated deaths slammed into him. It was always like that when he returned from Heaven, a plane where there was no grief nor loss nor ending; it was the reason (well, one of them, anyways) he was so loathe to visit. All the lost human lives just waited for his reappearance upon Earth, and this time was worse than usual.1

Aziraphale paused to observe the scene. _There_. On the opposite side of the tarmac. An inconspicuous out-of-the-way shed, covered with corrugated steel and _KEEP OUT_ warning signs. Three monochromatic motorcycles and four children’s bicycles dropped to the ground in front of it. All the signs of an imminent Apocalyptic (literally) confrontation.

As he crossed the asphalt, he glanced over towards the gate in the middle of a chainlink fence. A vintage convertible was barreling down the road, spewing flames and black smoke and exuding a very familiar presence. He changed direction instantly.

The automobile screeched to a halt, and a lanky, pale, soot-covered man-shape hopped over the driver’s door, which immediately detached and fell with a clanging crash to smoulder on the pavement. “Hullo, angel, fancy meeting you here.”

“Crowley,” he breathed. He should be worried that the Archangels were still watching him, could see for themselves the bald proof of his _fraternization_. He should be upset that the demon was here, wasn’t safe, was right in the middle of what was currently the most dangerous place in the world. He couldn’t suppress his overwhelming delight. “Not gone to the stars, then?”

“Nah,” Crowley shrugged. “Stuff happened.” There was a deafening _whoooooosh_ behind him as the automobile exploded. 

The demon pondered the enormous fireball with solemn reverence. “You wouldn’t get that kind of combustion from a _modern_ car,” he finally proclaimed, and kissed his fingers in homage. A lone tire iron, flung by the force of the explosion, clattered at his feet.

“She was a good car,” the angel agreed. He noted the charred cover of the book the other held. He felt the presence of his own feather tucked safely within the inside pocket of the filthy jacket. His entirely unnecessary heart started skipping about his chest in a most peculiar fashion. 

Crowley was _here_ , and that was what was important; if the demon wasn’t going to mention their row, he certainly wasn’t going to bring it up. This was hardly the time or the place, anyhow.

“So… Antichrist, then?” Crowley asked, as casually as if he were inquiring about luncheon plans.

“Oh!” Aziraphale startled. “Yes. Over this way, I believe.” 

“Right-o,” Crowley agreed. He picked up the tire iron in his free hand. “You still want me to … you know … take care of things?” He waved the tool vaguely.

Oh, _Crowley_. How could this dear, _darling_ demon be so generous, so freely to offer what Aziraphale knew he found repugnant, just to spare a cowardly angel from the guilt? “Certainly not!” he responded primly. “Bit too late for that, I should think.”

Over by the Romney hut, four children huddled, frozen in a tense stand-off with three anthropomorphic personifications of atavistic terrors. The latter scarcely looked human anymore; the former appeared achingly, vulnerably, so. Yet as Aziraphale gazed from one to another, he detected an indefinable, but undeniable similarity. His eyes widened. _Of course_. Like angels and demons, the boy had the power to bend reality to his expectations. Without supernatural interference, he had looked to his fellow humans for the companions he subconsciously knew should be by his side. 

Almost against his will, the angel started to feel faintest stirrings of hope. Was it _possible_? “Crowley,” he whispered, “do you see…?”

The impossibly-thin sable-skinned needle-toothed being was the first to notice their approach. His eyes fixed on the angel. “My lord!” he purred, with an extravagant bow. “At last you have joined us! We have set all in motion, and your ultimate triumph is at hand.”

“What the fu—” Crowley growled. Aziraphale stayed him with one hand and took a few steps closer. 

The ember-red entity with bloody hair, eyes, and lips sketched a quick salute. “Or it will be, lord, once you convince this chi—, our _Master_ ,” her glance cut over to a sweet-faced boy with a mop of curly dark hair, “that _we_ are his loyal servants, not those brats.”

“Don’t want _servants_ ,” the boy scowled. “Sounds dead boring. I want my _friends_.” The other children who flanked him, two more boys and a girl, nodded nervously.

The pale being, slight, slimy, and scabbed, wrapped zir arms about zirself. The black one nodded in agreement. “But we _are_ your friends, Master. The best friends ever,” he translated. “Tell him, my lord,” directing this last at Aziraphale.

The angel clasped his hands behind his back. He felt very shabby and out-of-place in his old-fashioned pinstriped suit, with everyone’s eyes resting on him expectantly. Ah, well, needs must, make the best of things… He lifted his chin. “I am _not_ your lord, you know. You do not serve my wishes.”

Red grinned at him, displaying sharp wet fangs. “We serve your _purpose_ , though.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “You serve your own. And I serve the Almighty’s. _He_ ,” and he nodded politely to the young boy, “is no master of mine.” He smiled kindly. “You _are_ Adam Young, are you not? It is a pleasure to finally meet you, my dear.”

“Angel,” Crowley hissed urgently. “You do know who he is, right?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale answered. “He is a young man who knows who his real friends are.”

Adam looked at him intently. “I remember you…” he said slowly.

“No, my dear. We’ve never met. But you may know _of_ me.” Aziraphale turned his gaze back to the three entities. “And if you do, you surely know that I do not play favourites. I will not interfere with your choices here.” He laughed, a little giddily.2 “Which is not to say that I don’t have my own preferences.”

“Enough of this.” The embodiment of War reached over her shoulder and slid free an enormous sword from the sheath strapped to her back. “Little girl, you should go back to playing with your dollies.”

“I do not endorse casual sexism!” Pepper snapped, and brandished a wooden dagger that she had tucked into her cherry-red high-top.

Crowley cocked an eyebrow at the weapon the Red Rider was showily flourishing. He took several wary steps back from the entity and nudged the angel. “I say, isn’t that your sword?”

Aziraphale had felt the connection as soon as the sword was unsheathed. “I do believe that it is.” He eyed the light-sucking frozen blade with a sick fascination. When he had first been commissioned with the Holy Weapon, he had had no notion of how to use it. Now, with the benefit of six thousand years of other people’s memories, he had a very good idea indeed of its powers and purpose. 

He only hoped that the martial entity was as ignorant as he had been. The silly way she was twirling it, more befitting a music hall dancer with a beribboned baton than someone wielding a metaphysically pluripotent artifact, gave him some confidence that she relied more on force than finesse.

“They’re not real,” Adam called out suddenly. “They’re just … like nightmares, I think. Pepper, say out loud whatever you really believe.”

The girl gave a clipped nod, and glared at her opponent. “I believe in _peace_ ,” she declared ferociously. Then, with an impudent smirk, she added, “Bitch.” Aziraphale couldn’t approve of the vulgarity, but he admired the firmness with which she held her wooden weapon. The huge sword of ice came crashing down in an overhead swing. 

On his left, Crowley gave a stifled squawk of panic.

Holy Sword collided with child’s toy; and the former was wrenched out of War’s grip and _thunk_ ed to the tarmac. “Don’t touch it, Peps!” Adam yelled, just as the girl reached down. 

The Red Rider spat and cursed as she writhed into nothingness. The other two entities stared in shock.

Famine was the first to recover, transferring an enraged glare to the tallest and thinnest of the three boys. The Black Rider held up a pair of gleaming silver scales, and jangled them menacingly. Even Aziraphale felt a sudden uncomfortable hollowness in his corporation, while the humans all grimaced and clutched at their cramping bellies.

Still, the skinny boy stepped forward bravely, shoving black-framed spectacles up his nose and clutching a digital cooking scale (undoubtedly nicked from his parents’ kitchen). “I believe in regular nutritious meals,” he proclaimed, in the voice of one used to making pedantic observations. “Actually—” (here the three other children simultaneously winced) “ _Actually_ , a balanced diet includes desserts and even a between-meals treat every now and then.”

There was an outraged sputter and black-tinged swirl, and the silver scales clattered to the ground beside the sword.

Now the smallest, grubbiest boy faced the White Rider, who stood smirking beneath zir tarnished diadem. “S’all right, Brian,” encouraged Adam. 

The boy twitched the hastily woven clover wreath on his messy hair a little straighter, and announced, “I believe in fresh air, and sunshine, and a good night’s sleep.” Pestilence staggered back, clearly shaken, but rallied. “I believe that vaccines are a good thing.” Pestilence cowered. “And,” Brian concluded firmly, “I believe in more funding for the NHS!”

With a tinny _clannng_ , a spotted silver crown spun lazily on the pavement beside the scales and the sword.

The Antichrist’s wary eyes met Aziraphale’s gaze over the little pile of metaphysical weaponry. “I don’t have to fight you, do I?” Adam asked.

The angel shook his head with a gentle smile. “Best not, I think. It wouldn’t end well for either of us.” He tugged on his waistcoat. “Or anything else, I imagine.”

Crowley gawped at them, jaw dropped. “It can’t be that _easy_.” He looked past the children, to where the young woman and man were emerging from the shed. “Oi! Bicycle Girl!”

Anathema shouted back, “Hey! The guys who stole my book!”

“ _Borrowed_ ,” the demon shrugged. “Anyways, catch.” He tossed the singed volume her way, just as Aziraphale said, “Thank you so very much for the loan, my dear, and I assume you and your young man have, er, sorted everything out?”

“ _Unhh_ ,” garbled Newt Pulsifer, goggling at the odd assortment of beings assembled at the airfield. With commendable sangfroid, Anathema seized his hand. “Yep, my boyfriend shut it all down.” 

Aziraphale rocked back on his heels, overcome with relief. He was just about to suggest going back into the village for tea and biscuits all around, when a crack of thunder and jagged burst of lightning reminded him that the Archangels were observing this whole encounter, and were undoubtedly about to demand some sort of explanation.

The angel spun around to see a compact entity radiating infernal power, flanked by two repellent demonic figures, blaze into existence to the left of the Heavenly quartet.

Beside him, Crowley said softly, “Ah, bugger _-all_. It’s the Boss. And Dagon and Hastur. Doesn’t look like they were able to dry out Ligur, at least.”

The Infernal Prince seemed to be conferring with Gabriel. The pair strode across the tarmac, attendants trailing a few paces back, towards their motley group. Aziraphale quickly stepped forward to shield the children (and the demon) from whatever the representatives of Heaven and Hell intended.

His shoulder bumped into Crowley, who got in front first. 

“Lord Beelzebub,” the red-haired demon bowed obsequiously. He displayed the ingratiating _wait-I-can-explain-all-this_ grin which the angel had seen upon a myriad of occasions.

The Prince of Hell brushed past him with a poisonous glower that made the smirk wither on Crowley’s face.3 Accompanied by Gabriel, they came to a halt in front of the young Antichrist. The little dog squeezed between the boy’s legs and erupted into a fusillade of high-pitched barks.

Gabriel pasted his most sincere expression upon his face. “Young man,” he addressed Adam pompously. “Fear not!”

“I don’t believe that _he_ needs to be afraid of _you_ ,” Crowley observed.

“Your opinionz are neither needed nor wanted, traitor,” Beelzebub responded coldly.

The violet archangel cleared his throat. “As I was saying… You need to start Armageddon going again.”

“Why?” Adam asked bluntly.

“Because… because… ” Gabriel sputtered. “Because everything’s _ready_!”

Adam eyed him like he was quite possibly mental.

Beelzebub looked at the Archangel the same way. “Let me handle thizz,” they buzzed. They crouched down in front of the boy and smiled sweetly. “Adam. His Satanic Majesty haz a zpecial job that only you can do. He haz zet everything up zo you will rule the world. Doezn’t that zound like a fun game?”

The dog whined. Adam shrugged. “Not particularly.” 

Beelzebub stood back up. “It doezn’t matter. The Apocalypze _muzt_ occur. It iz _written_.”

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale ventured. “But where?”

“Stay out of this, Aziraphale,” Gabriel hissed. “You already botched your role.”

“I don’t mean to be difficult4,” the Principality said apologetically. “But, well, both of you keep saying that _It is written_. I just so happen to be somewhat of an expert on the subject of prophetic writings—all writing, really, little hobby of mine, going back thousands of years you know—but most especially writings of a mantic nature, and, er, I was just wondering, what exactly is _it_ and where is it _written_?”

“It’s … the _Plan_!” Gabriel exclaimed, just as Beelzebub echoed, “The Great Plan!”

“Ah. Exactly so,” Aziraphale nodded. He fiddled a bit with the cuffs of his coat. “But… I must have dozens of prophetic books and scrolls and wall-paintings and so forth, back in my shop, and they all insist that _they_ contain the most nice and accurate recordings of the Great Plan, _the_ Great Plan that is, and not a two of them agree on the details. Really, for the most part they contradict each other in every respect. And, I do hope you’ll forgive me, but if even the pair of you compare your versions, I’m fairly certain that they are quite variant with regards to the outcome, if nothing else.”

The Prince of Hell and the Messenger of Heaven gaped at him. Then both slowly turned their heads to narrow their eyes at the other.

The angel pressed on. “The preferred methodology in such situations, as I am sure you already know, is to refer to an authoritative text. And the locution— _it is written_ —definitely implies that one such exists, but… I’ve been down to Heaven, many times. And I have certainly never seen such a Plan engraved, as it were, in mile-high golden letters upon a celestial tablet. Crowley, you’ve never mentioned, but I wonder if you’ve glimpsed anything of the sort, when…?” he trailed off delicately.

“Nope, not in Hell,” Crowley drawled. Behind his dark glasses, his eyes were flashing in awed admiration for his _clever_ angel. “Not written in the stars, neither. Pretty sure I would have noticed.”

“Ah. There you have it,” Aziraphale concluded. “I am quite sorry.”5 “But I am afraid that you’re making an ineligible argument.”

Beelzebub turned to Gabriel. “What iz _with_ thiz angel of yourz? Iz he completely _inzane_?”

“Insanity is no defense,” the Archangel gritted. “Aziraphale, what are you _doing_? You know how the Great Plan goes! The Almighty laid it all out at the beginning of Time: the Earth is to abide for six thousand years, only to be destroyed by water and by fire, and the Hosts of Heaven will triumph over the Hordes of Hell forever!”

“That lazt bit iz ztill to be _dezided_ —”

Adam huffed. “I have to destroy everything so you two can decide whose gang is best? That sounds really stupid. Why don’t you just, I dunno, play Battleship or something, instead?”

As one, the Archangel and the demon Prince glared at Antichrist. “The _Plan_!” they chimed in unison.

Aziraphale gave a little cough. “Ahem. So, I gather that this Plan isn’t exactly, er, completely _fleshed out_. More like an outline. Or a script. A … _story_ , as it were.”

“Thiz iz all very interezting philozophically,” the Prince of Hell interjected, in a tone that made it very clear that they found it anything but. “But perhapz we can continue thiz dizcuzzion _after_ the Young Mazter beginz the Final Battle. If theze are hiz chozen tools,” they sneered at the rest of the children, “he needz to empower them to _get on with it_.”

“No,” Adam said. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. You’re not my parents. And _he_ ,” nodding at Aziraphale, “seems to be the only one who is trying to explain what’s going on.”

“Thank you, my dear boy.” The Principality beamed.

“So, what’s your _point_ then?” Gabriel frowned.

“Oh! Fortunately, I _also_ happen to know a bit about stories, and how they work, and the like,” Aziraphale said earnestly.6 “You see, any story—any work of art, really—doesn’t belong solely to the author. Not once it has been, well, _published_. The creator certainly has the initial say, sets the parameters, imposes certain constraints, and so forth. But once a story is, er, released into the wild, as it were… it of necessity becomes a _collaboration_. Between the author and those who read it.” He indicated the humans who were standing behind them. “Or, in this case, _live_ it.”

“You forget that in this case, the Author is the Almighty,” Gabriel argued. “Who is, literally, _All Mighty_.”

“I certainly do not. In Her infinite power, She bestowed upon Her human children the gift of imagination. Of _interpretation_. The ability to … co-create, one might say. They were created in _Her_ image, after all.” Aziraphale clasped his hands firmly behind his back. “Which, need I remind you, we were not.”

Gabriel grimaced. This had always been a sore point with him.

“At any rate,” the Principality continued, “neither of _you_ are the Almighty. You are not the divine Author; you interpret the Plan, just like anyone else. You do not have the right to force upon anyone _your_ reading.”

“Very well,” the Archangel snapped. “We’ll play it your way.” He turned to Adam. “How about it, young man? Surely you want a story with a happy ending? One where everything turns out for the best?” His smug expression left no doubt as to who he considered _the best_ to be.

“Nonzenze.” Beelzebub winked conspiratorially at the boy. “I am sure that you prefer a ztory where you get everything that you have ever dezired. Where your enemiez are crushed under your feet.”

“Ummm…” The Antichrist hesitated. He glanced back at his friends. “I … like stories with pirates.” 

The angel gave him an encouraging nod. “Excellent. And what else?”

“And … spaceships. And cowboys, and monsters.” Adam became more enthusiastic. “I like stories with lots of adventures, that I can play with all my friends. Where we can go to different places, and times, and do all the stuff. I like mysteries, and scary stories, sometimes, and funny stories, but the sad ones are okay, too, coz I feel better after a good cry. And I don’t really like kissing stories, but Brian an’ Wensleydale do”—the two other boys looked a bit sheepish at that—“so I s’pose they’re not too bad. Oh, and animals.” He reached down to ruffle the ears of the dog. “Got to have animal stories. So I guess that includes all the stories about people, people are just another kind of animal, really.” He looked up at Aziraphale. “Is that all right?”

“Yes, my dear boy.” The Principality beamed at him, rocking back on his heels. “That’s perfectly _splendid_. It appears that you have decided on the most gloriously … _human_ … genre imaginable.” He tilted his head, challenging the assembled Archangels and demon lords. “Gentlemen, ladies, and … otherwise, perhaps you should go back and inform your respective armies what kind of story they’re in now?”

Gabriel and Beelzebub shared another long look… this one of identical frustration. The Prince of Hell blew out a long buzzing sigh. “Boy. Your Infernal Father will hear about thiz. And he will _not_ be pleazzzzed.” They turned to walk away.

Gabriel and the Archangels followed. The violet Messenger wheeled around, and pinned Aziraphale with a patronizing grin. “You may know something about stories, Aziraphale, but you’re forgetting one crucial aspect. The Author always has absolute say over how the story _ends_.” He pointedly shifted his attention to the Holy Sword still on the ground. “The Almighty gave you _one job_ , dewdrop. You might want to think about where your ultimate responsibility resides.” Then he turned back and hurried to catch up with his colleagues.

Aziraphale couldn’t stop looking at the sword. He shuddered, as if he already felt that icy hunger freezing in his hand. Gabriel _knew_. Of course Gabriel knew. 

Crowley waved pale fingers in front of his face. “You still with us, angel?”

“Ah. Er.” Aziraphale rolled his shoulders. “I think so.”

The demon peered at him. "You want to clarify that purple pillock's parting shot? Something we should know, maybe?"

The angel sighed. "It's ... well. The Sword. It's a Sword of ... Ending, I suppose you'd say."

"No, I wouldn't," Crowley snapped. "Because I have no idea what that even _means_."

"It ... It finishes things. Brings them to culmination. _Fulfillment_." Aziraphale twisted his fingers in distress. "Lives, of course, battles, kingdoms, that sort of thing, I imagine that's how War used it. But also ... curses, for example, like when Cain turned it against Abel. Prophecies. And ..."

"Plans," the demon supplied. "Stories."

"Exactly. To wield that weapon in this ... context," he waved his hands about in a vague encompassing gesture, "would be to stamp THE END in enormous capital letters on, well, on _everything_."

Crowley shrugged. "So, y'know, don't do that."

"Er," the angel said weakly. It would be lovely if it were that simple.

"Um." The Antichrist cleared his throat. “I probably should say thank you, Mister, um…” 

“Aziraphale is fine,” the angel said. “Thank _you_ , my dear boy. You were very brave.”

“No.” Adam shook his head. “I mean, thanks, but … It’s like I said. I remember you.” He looked at Crowley. “ _Both_ of you.”

Crowley scratched the back of his neck. “Eh. I mean, we’ve met, but you were about two hours old, so…”

“Not like that. This was … _not_ me, but … sorta me? From a real long time ago? You,” Adam pointed to the demon, “you gave us a _choice_. That was a really big thing.”

Crowley backed away a little. "You might very well think that; I couldn't possibly comment _._ "

“But _you_ …” And Adam looked at Aziraphale. “You gave us a _chance_. That was _every_ thing. Except now …” He squinted his eyes and frowned. “Now … you’re, like, two people. It’s not right, being two people.” 

“ _Names_ ,” Aziraphale murmured.

“I think… I think _you_ need to make a choice now.” The Antichrist bent over, picked up the sword, and offered it hilt first to the angel. 

“Kid …” Crowley warned.

“It’s all right. We can trust him. I’m pretty sure.” Adam tossed the demon an impudent grin. “And if I’m wrong… then I guess _you_ ’ll get a chance.”

Aziraphale took the sword with his left hand. It nestled into his grip as if it had never left.

He closed his eyes. Well, two of them, that is.

A thousand thousand more eyes opened behind him, glowing and golden and watching, as his wings unfurled like nightfall, like an onrushing thunderstorm. His corporation stretched, folded, _inverted_. 

He heard several shocked gasps, but ignored them, letting his other Name fill his essence.

“Angel?” a voice quavered uncertainly. Oh, that would be Crowley. The demon. The Raptor of Eden. “Aziraphale?”

He assumed the stance of witness. “MY NAME IS _AZRAEL_.”

Notes: 

1\. Many of those deaths were by means he had never experienced before. _Eaten by a kraken_ , for example; that was a new one. _Smothered beneath an avalanche of fish_ wasn’t, but it had been quite a few centuries.  Back

2\. Mostly because behind the three Riders, unnoticed by anyone other than a certain angel and demon, a young woman who looked uncannily like the erstwhile owner of Agnes Nutter’s book and an unfamiliar young man were surreptitiously sneaking into the metal shed through a door prominently marked COMMUNICATIONS: DO NOT ENTER. Crowley had started to say something, but shut his mouth abruptly when Aziraphale tossed him a Significant Look. Many of the more puzzling prophecies were suddenly becoming much clearer. Back

3\. Aziraphale tried to memorize that efficacious glare for future use. If there _was_ a future.  Back

4\. He did. Back

5\. He wasn’t.  Back

6\. He supposed that he shouldn’t be _enjoying_ himself, the circumstances were terribly _fraught_ , but really, he couldn’t remember when he last had an audience so invested in his thoughts about literary criticism.  Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /Checks supplies in virtual pantry/ Everyone who predicted that last line gets a chocolate biscuit!


	14. Ye that are holy and humble of heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The angel just firmed his stance and spread his wings, feathers rustling wildly in the wind, the better to shelter Adam securely. Firebolts began to streak down from Above, heralding the imminent arrival of the King of Hell._
> 
> _Just a little more time, thought Crowley in desperation. He was sure he could come up with a plan, and it would be a_ brilliant _plan, but they were running out of time…_
> 
> Apocalyptic showdown at the airbase, Part Two: Enter Satan!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: CW for True Form body horror (depending on your aesthetic tastes)

It had been a fucking _day_.

Already since this morning Crowley had been through a devastating fight with his best friend, survived a demonic home invasion and an eight-story fall, believed that he had lost the love of his (very long) life, found out he was wrong via the heckling of a centuries-dead witch, managed to drive through close-approximation-of-Hell on Earth by sheer force of will only to total his treasured Lotus Elan, watched a pack of pre-teens kick the collective hindquarters of various monstrous personifications of primordial terrors, and heard his angel argue the rulers of Heaven and Hell out of launching Armageddon by means of _literary theory_.

He was filthy, exhausted, and completely _freaked out_.

And the worst part, the demon thought, was that the day wasn’t even close to over yet.

After all, he had just experienced the eldritch horror of seeing his best friend-slash-love-of-his-life-slash-clever-angel literally _turn his corporation inside out_ in the process of manifesting as a creature so dread that even angels and demons would flee at the hint of his presence.

(Even while in the grip of existential fear, Crowley couldn’t resist checking. Yep, Beelzebub, Hastur, Dagon, the whole crew of Archangels—all of them had skedaddled. _Heh_.)

Part of the demon’s brain felt transcendentally _stupid_ for not figuring out Aziraphale’s other Name earlier. Crowley had seen Aziraphale dutifully respond to massacres and disasters for millennia, and the angel had all but taken out an advert in the _Times_ describing the nature of his side gig. But the rest of his mind still couldn’t quite accept it; who would ever suspect a kind, gentle, fussy, hedonistic, old-fashioned pedantic bastard of a bibliophile as the secret identity of the anthropomorphic expression of the metaphysical concept of Death itself? 

And to be fair to himself, Crowley recalled that he had only seen the angel “witnessing” (and wasn’t _that_ a misleading euphemism?) at a distance and from behind; and those wings were quite the enthralling distraction. Anyone confronted with the full spectacle of this transformation face-on, the demon thought, could not possibly be deluded as to Aziraphale’s other role.

Crowley was no stranger to the unfathomable _weirdness_ of angelic True Forms. Unlike himself (and most other demons), Heavenly beings were never content with straightforward animal avatars.1 No, they had to go for the baroque, with multiple mismatched heads, layered racks of wings, not to mention more outré accessories like twirling wheels and floating eyeballs and tacky meteorological phenomena. If Crowley had given any thought to the physical appearance of his counterpart’s interior Grace, he would have assumed it would manifest as some sort of soothing cool darkness, like the demon always felt when the angel came near.

He never would have guessed that that soft round corporation concealed a fearsome, glaring white … well, one couldn’t call it _light_ , not when it illuminated nothing. Rather the reverse, it devoured all light into itself, until it blazed more blinding than the fires of Hell, more pure than the fonts of Heaven. The awful, awesome dazzle of it, that neither burned nor froze, buttressing (like bones, like veins) the stark crystal pillar of a man-shape, easily two metres tall; even Crowley, ever the optimist, who lacked even the slightest taste for oblivion, could feel himself leaning into the seductive lure of that shining void, promising release and everlasting rest.

“Az- …Az-” he managed to croak.

“AZRAEL,” the angel repeated politely. “IT TRANSLATES AS ‘ _HELPER FROM GOD_ ’, YOU KNOW.”2

“ _Angel_ ,” the demon concluded helplessly. “For the love of Go- Sa- _Somebody_ , could you please _dial it down_ a bit?”

“OH.” Azrael glanced down at his own corporation. ‘I DO BEG YOUR PARDON. I’M NOT USED TO INTERACTING WITH THE LIVING.” The worn pinstriped suit darkened (although still nowhere near as Stygian as those space-black wings) and flowed over and around his body, draping the stark magnetic pull in a sooty cloak and cowl.

“Better.” Crowley blinked several times, and settled his dark glasses more firmly on his face. “So. That was an awfully fast choice. Kicking Aziraphale entirely to the kerb, are you?”

“IT’S … NOT THAT SIMPLE.” Was the very manifestation of Annihilation even allowed to sound apologetic? “DEATH IS CREATION’S SHADOW. WITHOUT ME, THE WORLD…”

“Would still continue to _die_ , angel.” The demon crossed his arms. “You can’t convince me that ever’thing would just … live forever.”

“NO. BUT THEY WOULD DIE … ALONE. FORGOTTEN. WITHOUT A GUIDE. WITHOUT … CARE.”

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. When you pit the desires of a single irredeemable fiend against the needs of the whole of humanity … how could he blame the angel for his priorities? Did it even matter that one demon might _also_ be alone? “Look, I’m not exactly sure what you’re intending… _Aaargh_!” He suddenly felt an overwhelming inrush of rage-fueled occult power: seeking, invading, _dominating_ … He dropped to his knees and clutched at his head in an agonized effort to retain control over his own mind.

The humans at the airfield likewise stumbled and slid as a violent twisting gale began to batter them about. “What is it?” Newton gasped. “We’re not supposed to have tornados in England!” Above them, the sky shattered like a windshield, balefire seeping through the cracks.

Azrael, steady as a mountain, turned gracefully and faced towards the west, left arm extending his sword level and unyielding.

“Bollocks.” This definitely put the cherry on an utter shite-cake of a day. “They actually did it. They told his father.” Crowley’s grating monotone indicated just how empty his bucket of fucks was at the moment. “And he is _not_ happy.” He struggled for something to add. “S’been nice knowing you.”

“PLEASE GET BEHIND ME, ADAM YOUNG,” the angel instructed. “DEMON CROWLEY, TAKE THE HUMANS TO A SAFE PLACE TO SHELTER.”

“Yeah, how ‘bout _not_ ,” grumbled the demon, staggering back to his feet. He was not going to obsess about the impersonal formal address, not even a little bit, he had more important things to worry about. _He shall have Need of thee anon_.3 “I’m not leaving you— _either_ of you—here alone.”

“IT WILL BE DIFFICULT FOR ME TO PROTECT THE INNOCENTS WHILE AT THE SAME TIME DEFENDING THE ANTICHRIST,” Azrael said, and was there a note of _pleading_ in that thunderclap voice? “WHAT DO YOU HOPE TO CONTRIBUTE?”

“Umm…” Crowley waved about the tyre iron he was, for some reason, still clutching. “Backup?”

“We’ll take the kids inside the shed,” Anathema volunteered. “It’s got to be sturdy, what with all that equipment, and there aren’t any windows to blow out.”

The angel didn’t answer, just firmed his stance and spread his wings, feathers rustling wildly in the wind, the better to shelter Adam securely. Firebolts began to streak down from Above, heralding the imminent arrival of the King of Hell. 

_Just a little more time_ , thought Crowley in desperation. He was sure he could come up with a plan, and it would be a _brilliant_ plan, but they were running out of time…

_Time_.

Gaps started to appear in the cracked blue bowl of the sky. Huge reptilian, no, _draconic_ , claws began to scrape their way through the firmament. One enormous malevolent serpentine eye peered through, burning even more fiercely than even the scorching sun, seeking out the recalcitrant Antichrist. It landed on the black-cloaked angel, and the icy sword, and the slit pupil widened.

Crowley didn’t know if what he was going to try was possible. It probably _wasn’t_ possible. But if the demon imagined it was possible, believed it was possible, _expected_ it to be possible4 …

Crowley reached up with both hands, gathered as much infernal power as he could grab, and _yanked_.

~o*0*o~

The noise and the wind stopped. Even better, so did the unbearable mental pressure to _submit!submit!submit!_ The demon sagged, hands on knees, trying to catch a breath he didn’t need. Behind him, bone-white wings unfurled, flapped twice, rested. An absolutely featureless plane spread beneath a colorless sky. The still atmosphere was neither hot nor cold, and smelled of nothing.

“WHERE IS THIS PLACE?” the angel enquired, as if in idle curiosity. Adam peeked cautiously out from between his feathers.

“Dunno,” Crowley gasped. “Never done this before. Somewhere … Outside, I’d guess. Y’know. Outside of … _everything_.”

“YOU HAVE STOPPED TIME.”

“Yeah. Don’t think I can hold it for long. Just need a moment to …” To do what, exactly? Crowley didn’t know. _Something_.

“THIS ISN’T NECESSARY. THE SWORD WILL BE ENOUGH. I CAN … FINISH HIM.” The angel’s voice was still neutral. “THAT SHOULD END THIS POINTLESS WAR. THE ARCHANGELS WILL BE SATISFIED; WELL, AT LEAST ENOUGH TO FOREGO REVENGE, I SUPPOSE.”

“You can’t do that!” the demon yelled. “You said it yourself! That will also end the whole bloody _world_!”

“I CANNOT STAND BY AND LET AN INNOCENT CHILD BE DESTROYED.”

“No offense, Azrael,” Crowley countered, “but you’ve done it often enough since the world began. Millions and millions of ‘em.”

The angel startled back, as if struck. “I … NEVER HAD THE OPTION BEFORE.” Now he sounded a bit unsure. “BESIDES, THERE IS DEATH; AND THERE IS _DESTRUCTION_.”

Adam wrapped his arms around himself and shivered.

“So that’s it? You’re gonna trade all of Creation for one kid? There’s _got_ to be something else…”

“CHOICE IS A HEAVY BURDEN, DEMON. I DO NOT ENVY HUMANITY THEIR FREEDOM. YET I AM VERY VERY WEARY. I HAVE BEEN FOR … QUITE A LONG TIME NOW. THERE ARE WORSE THINGS IN THE WORLD THAN ENDING IT.”

“Not for _them_!” The demon raked his free hand through his hair.

_“_ It’s all right,” Adam said in a small voice. “You don’t have to … I’m sure it will all work out.”

“No, it won’t! This angel,” Crowley jerked his thumb, “He’s not _wrong_. Your father, he’s gonna be _pissed_ , he’s going to destroy _you_ , destroy us too, most likely—”

“ _Stop saying that_!” Adam cried. “He’s not my dad, he’s _not_! My dad would never hurt me, just because I chose to be something different from what he expected!” Tears were running down his face.

Crowley wanted to bash the tyre iron across his own head. Great job, proper demonic work that was. Not only was he totally fucking up cancelling the Apocalypse, he just made a kid _cry_. 

For the briefest moment, he felt his control slip over this little bubble outside time and space. Very faintly, like a poor quality video projection, the gray tarmac and burning skies over a rundown airfield wavered into view. The demon squeezed the power in his fists a little tighter, and the image disappeared.

It was hard to read an expression on a face that was little more than a skull-shaped glowing void, but it seemed that Azrael was regarding the Antichrist with respect. “YOU ARE VERY WISE, ADAM YOUNG. CHOICE IS A PERILOUS GIFT; BUT TO TREAT THE GIFT TOO LIGHTLY IS TO INSULT THE GIVER.”

_Hold on_ … Crowley stood very still. “So maybe you should stop doing that, angel.”

Azrael turned towards him slowly. “TREAD CAREFULLY, SHRIKE.”

The demon winced but held his ground. “No. _You_ are the one who is being … disrespectful … of what you’ve been given. You know.” He steeled himself. “From … from _Her_.”

“NO. WHAT THE BOY SAID EARLIER IS STILL TRUE. IT IS NOT … RIGHT … TO TRY TO BE TWO DIFFFERENT BEINGS. IT IS NOT … HEALTHY. IT WAS NECESSARY TO MAKE A CHOICE.”

“Okay, _fine_. And to choose to be Azrael, to be the Helper, that’s … that’s _good_. If that’s your call, I would … _anyone_ would honor you for that. But.” Crowley licked his lips. He couldn’t fuck this one up. “But the thing is … the _thing_ is … She also gave you the other Name, Aziraphale, right? She gave it to you _first_. So, like, you can’t just throw that away”

The other stood silently. Waiting.

“Angel.” Crowley’s hands were shaking. “ _Aziraphale_. You. Are. The. Bloody. _Silence of God_. If _She_ can make the entirety of the cosmos wait for Her to say something for six thousand _years_ and counting, why do you think that _you_ have to give a fucking eleven-year-old an answer right away?”

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Then, “LANGUAGE, MY DEAR.”

Crowley nearly collapsed in relief.

“YOU CANNOT HOLD TIME MUCH LONGER, DEAR ONE. THE ADVERSARY STILL APPROACHES TO DESTROY US ALL. WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE ME DO?”

“I … I don’t _know_. You’ve always been the clever one,” the demon confessed. “I just know that if you do _this_ ,” and he nodded at the sword, “if you d-don’t come up something _else_ … you’ll never t-t-talk t-to me again.”

The angel cocked his head. Crowley _knew_ that gesture, knew that it was a sign of concentrated thought. “THERE MIGHT BE … PERHAPS. BUT I CANNOT … NOT _ALONE_.” He turned to the Antichrist. “HUMAN CHILD, CHILD OF EARTH; DO I HAVE YOUR ASSENT?”

Adam blinked. “You’re asking _me_ for…? I guess? I mean, I trust you. I don’t think you actually _can_ do the wrong thing.”

Azrael nodded, then faced Crowley. “AND YOU, DEMON FROM HELL? DO YOU … WILL YOU…” He trailed off.

“Yes,” Crowley answered without hesitation. It didn’t matter, really, what his angel was about to ask. 

_Do you trust me?_

_Will you help me?_

_Do you forgive me?_

_Will you be on my (on_ our _) side?_

_Do you_ love _me?_

The answer would still be the same. “Always.”

“THEN I SHALL DO MY BEST. ADAM YOUNG, I THINK YOU HAD THE RIGHT IDEA WITH YOUR FRIENDS EARLIER. STAND CLOSE, PLEASE; AND AS TIME BEGINS, SAY WHAT YOU BELIEVE.”

~o*0*o~

An angel, a demon, and an Antichrist reappeared on an airfield. 

Well, not technically _re_ appeared, since to any outside observer, they never really _dis_ appeared5; but nonetheless they had definitely changed. 

Most obviously, the angel held his terrifying darkly-shimmering sword at shoulder level in a double-handed grip, tilted defensively at the sky. The demon had placed a tentative hand on the angel’s left shoulder, right above a glittering midnight wing; the Antichrist, who couldn’t reach quite that high, had grabbed a fistful of black cloak.

More peculiar was the fact that the last two kept saying something. Or at least the boy was, muttering “I am _allowed_ to choose who I want to be; I am allowed to _choose_ who I want to be” over and over in a determined whisper. 

The demon, on the other hand, was acutely aware that he and words were frenemies at best; and that’s when there wasn’t once again an infernal force pounding relentlessly against his will, demanding obedience, submission, abasement. If whatever the angel was hoping to do depended upon Crowley expressing his deepest beliefs out loud, counting on his ability to word intelligently was probably a Very Bad Idea.

So instead, the demon was _singing_. 

It was a raspy, whistling call, not entirely unlike one he sang beneath a date palm many thousands of years ago. But this one was less of a heartfelt temptation, and rather more of a fierce declaration, a trilling statement of conviction that provoked an embarrassed burn as red as his hair all over his ears and the back of his neck. Still, Crowley gritted his teeth (and maybe gripped the angel’s shoulder a little tighter) and _kept_ _singing_.

The snout of an immense dragon slithered through a gap in the fractured sky. Swirling gusts of superheated smoke wreathed quivering nasal slits, and sent stinging, toxic clouds billowing across the tarmac. Scarlet eyes glowed and narrowed, as flames dripped embers like meteors from slavering jaws. Like the very voice of fire, the demand “ _Where is my rebellious son_?” sizzled and popped through the air.

“I am _not_ your son!” Adam clutched Azrael’s robe even more tightly. He yelled over the noise of conflagration, “You’re not my _real_ dad! And you _never_ were!”

At the exact same moment, the angel reversed the sword, and thrust downward with all his immense ethereal strength. The blade plunged like an icy arrow into the planet’s depths.

Above and below and all around him, Crowley could feel the entirety of the cosmos … _shift._

_The world shivered and blurred as causality suddenly … unspooled. Military personnel rubbed their eyes and yawned at another shift of boring duty. Ships and planes took back to their regular routes, undisturbed by primordial leviathans or inexplicable atmospheric phenomena. Motorists standing outside of their vehicles on a no-longer-burning motorway sheepishly returned behind the wheel. Toad-faced aliens and tunneling Asians alike found themselves once again in their proper homes. Thousands of casualties of bizarre, tabloid-worthy incidents reverted to lives of happy insignificance. 6 Further and further back reality unraveled. An overturned candle in an antiquarian bookshop righted itself. The ambassador from a small American country returned home with his wife and child. The bricks of a remote convent/birthing center un-charred and re-stacked themselves. _

Meanwhile…

_An unfriendly planet lurched on its axis, tilting to a more congenial angle. Grinding tectonic plates slid and settled into new alignments. Agitated rivers of boiling rock and metal calmed and flowed more gently. Deep within the Earth’s core, convection currents began spinning more vigorously, and the magnetosphere bloomed into a vaster protective shield. Polar icecaps crept across new latitudes, spilling fresh water into brackish seas. Ocean currents responded by seeking new paths, carrying warmth and nutrients in huge sweeping arcs around continents and trenches. Soil across the face of the earth churned to make room for green and growing things. The gaseous mixture of the air adjusted various levels, as rain-gravid clouds scudded across the sky, engulfing the whole world with a sharp tang of petrichor._

The gritty rust-coloured plumes of smoke on the ground parted, swept away by a fresh breeze, revealing an old-fashioned sensible sedan driving at a speed just a hair over perfectly safe. The driver, whose rumpled cardigan and not-quite-dashing mustache precisely matched the aesthetics of his vehicle, emerged calling, “Adam! What is going on here?” 

The former Antichrist sobbed “ _Dad_!” and raced to greet him, closely followed by three other children all running from the opened door of the communication shed and, at a more sedate pace, the two adults who had sheltered there with them. 

A stout middle-aged entity with earth-brown skin and fluffy curls of stormcloud hue watched them, fussily brushing soot and dust off of his long pinstriped coat. 

“Angel,” gasped Crowley. “… _Aziraphale_?”

“It seems so. For the time being, at least.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “That appears to have worked out better than I dared to hope. How delightful.”

“What—what have you _done_?”

“Well. It wasn’t all _me_. Most of the, er, heavy lifting as it were, was performed by young Adam.” Aziraphale smiled serenely. “What a _splendid_ boy he is; how wonderfully _human_. Almost entirely so, now… or, at least, insofar as I can tell.”

“No, I mean yeah, I _got_ that bit. The Antichrist insists that Satan isn’t his father, that his human parents _are_. Reality listens and rewires itself. Give the kid a ‘ _wahoo_ ’.” Crowley offered up half-hearted jazz hands. “But what the, uh, _what_ did you do with that sword? You didn’t _give it away_ again, did you? This isn’t” he swallowed “isn’t about to start all over, is it?”

“Certainly not!” His angel sounded quite indignant. “I used the sword for _precisely_ its intended purpose.” 

“But… but …” the demon started to scratch his head, then looked at the tyre iron he was still holding, shrugged, and dropped it. “But you didn’t kill Satan. He just … went away. And you didn’t end the world. I’m pretty sure _it’s_ still here.”

“Oh, yes!” Aziraphale wriggled happily. “It’s still here, and eversomuch _better_ , I do believe. I didn’t use the sword to end the world; I used it to _finish_ the world.”

“Wot.”

“I _told_ you, my dear, back at the very beginning. The humans were only to stay in Eden until the Almighty had completed Her work. But then, well, events intervened, as _you_ know,” the angel gave him a severe look, “and they had to leave early, and the world wasn’t quite _ready_.”

“Thought the whole temptation thing would take a bit longer,” Crowley mumbled. He felt pretty sure that this wasn’t a good time to make a joke about _premature ejection_.

“Yes, well, be that as it may; what with one thing and another, apparently the Almighty never got around to … anyhow, there was the _opportunity_ , and the _means_ , and apparently it was the right _time_.” Aziraphale frowned. “I’m afraid that Gabriel simply doesn’t understand how stories work. No one has _less_ control over when and how a story ends than the author. That is, the author gets to say what happens on the last page, but the _real_ story—the one that lives in the dance between the words written and the words read—is quite another matter. Indeed, the better the story, the more likely the reader is to become invested in _what next?_ and _what if?_ And surely the Almighty has written in Her Creation the most involving story of all.” He shook his head. “At any rate, I don’t think that I could have imposed this particular, er, conclusion on my own; not without your assent, and the boy’s. As representatives, so to speak, of your respective … audience.” 

The demon decided that he wasn’t going to think about that.

Aziraphale gazed at the spot where the sword had plummeted beneath the earth, thoughtfully humming as clear crystalline water began to bubble up from the ground, seeping slowly over the pavement. “Meanwhile, please do mind your feet, my dear. Perhaps you should …” 

Crowley quickly hopped back a good ten feet. “Yeah, I think we’re done here.”

“I _am_ so looking forward to returning home,” Aziraphale sighed dreamily. “I’m not accustomed to sleep, not like you, dear boy, but after all this I do believe that I could really give it a good go. I shall have to clear off the bed—I _think_ there’s a bed?—above the shop, but…”

“Unh.” The demon shifted nervously. “About that …”

On the whole, Crowley thought that the angel took the news better than might have been expected. By which he meant that Aziraphale was absolutely _desolate_ (seeing his eyes turn all the drowned colours of a devastating flood, Crowley was about ready to check whether the newly emerging Lake Tadfield was really as Holy as it looked); but also that the angel was simply too exhausted and overwhelmed to process One More Thing. 

“You could stay at my place, if you like,” Crowley offered gently, but without any real expectations that the other would take him up on it. Six thousand years of instinctive, wary avoidance was going to be a tough habit to break.

So it came as a complete shock when a wide-eyed Aziraphale looked up at the demon from underneath his lashes and gave a silent, jerky little nod.

Almost as much of a shock as the shy, hesitant brush of angel fingers resting atop Cowley’s hand all the way on the long bus ride back to London.

Notes:

1\. Crowley’s own True Form—an omnibus-sized shrike (with moonlight feathers and flame-licked claws and fangs) crossed with a smallish supernova—might be a bit flash, but it was also _classy_.  Back

2\. The capital letters are an inadequate representation of a voice that sounded a little like church bells, a little like a cannon blast, and a lot like an avalanche preparing a cup of tea. Back

3\. Crowley could foresee an awkward but important conversation with a certain angel about one particular prophecy and a black feather bookmark in the future. If there _was_ a future.  Back

4\. This is the point at which it would have been Really Bloody Useful to have a genre-savvy sidekick exclaim, “It’s a million-to-one chance, but it might just work!” Back

5\. Except to one small scruffy Hellhound, which for an eternal femtosecond had completely lost its canine mind.  Back

6\. Fortunately, none of this inflicted upon the Angel of Death the same twisty stabbing agony of a unique reversal of mortality some two thousand years ago. Instead, a significant portion of the names and lives committed to his personal archives over the past twenty-four hours suddenly were just no longer present in his memories—and, indeed, never had been there.  Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, yeah, I promised a “happy ending”, didn’t I? Let’s see if I can come with a nice fluffy epilogue.


	15. Every shower of rain and fall of dew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: _It ends, for now, where it began: with a garden, and a wall, and an angel standing watch._
> 
> Because I needed a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve put these poor boys through so much, so have some softness and sweetness and gratuitous handholding and contagious dorkitude and nigh-toxic levels of fluff. Like most of my fic, can be read as ace or not, as you choose.

**Epilogue:**

_If I say, "Surely the darkness will cover me, and the light around me turn to night,_

_Darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day;_

_darkness and light to you are both alike._

_\--Psalm 139:11-12_

~o*0*o~

It ends, for now, where it began: with a garden, and a wall, and an angel standing watch.

It wasn’t much of a wall; more of a railing, really, meant to protect the park visitors from the lake (and the lake from the park visitors), and Aziraphale was definitely not leaning against it as he stood, idly listening to a small band more enthusiastic than talented oom-pah their way through a cover of “You’re My Best Friend.”1 The angel had not been waiting for very many minutes, but he rather thought that he wouldn’t have minded waiting much longer—six thousand years, even, if necessary—for the company he was expecting.

It had been … odd, last night. Aziraphale was determined to start living the story he wanted, but he had been stymied by thousands of years of fear and weariness and shame. He certainly did not wish to impose upon such a treasured friendship with … _feelings_ … he wasn’t sure were reciprocated.2 But he _had_ accepted the demon’s offer; and his own tentative touch hadn’t been rejected.

And then they had reached Crowley’s building, and taken the lift to his flat … only to be confronted with a splintered door and a very unpleasant odor.

“ _Bugger_ ,” the demon swore. “Completely forgot I had company this morning.” He leaned his forehead against the wall of the foyer and slumped in exhaustion. “Sorry, angel. I’ll … miracle you up a hotel reservation, or something.”

“Nonsense, dear boy. You’re completely worn out.” The angel peered through the door, then took a wary step inside. “This is …”

“Holy Water, yeah. Pretty diluted, but I don’t think …”

“May I?” At the demon’s nod, Aziraphale ventured further in. “It’s just the lounge, here, and this passage. The other rooms seem to be safe enough.”

“Can’t exactly _get_ to them, can I, though?” Crowley sighed; then _squawked_ (to his obvious profound embarrassment) as the angel swept him up into his arms. “Angel, what the _fuck_?”

“Oh _hush_ , you. You’re far too tired to do anything but sleep in your own bed tonight.” And really, between his thin frame, hollow bones, and wretched refusal to eat properly, the demon was as light as … well, not a feather, but not too _many_ feathers, and it would have been a simple matter to carry him across the damp floor, if he hadn’t insisted on complaining and squirming in mortification until Aziraphale had really no choice but to threaten to drop the fiend into the elaborate indoor pond the angel had spotted in the center of the room.

Which shut Crowley up very nicely, and it was all worth it once the angel had placed him very gently upon the enormous moonlight-silver bed that dominated the bedroom. Aziraphale felt that it would have been terribly _invasive_ to do any more than to remove the demon’s dark glasses and put them on the bedside table; but the way Crowley had immediately shut his eyes and collapsed bonelessly into unconsciousness had caused the most peculiar … flutters … in the general region of the angel’s chest. He could not resist the urge to brush a few stray ginger curls away from the demon’s temple, and to bestow the faintest blessing for pleasant dreams.

Aziraphale had lost his own desire for sleep. It wasn’t anything he was accustomed to, and being in Crowley’s flat for the first time filled him with a not-entirely-unpleasant restlessness. He felt the need to _do_ something. Recurring thoughts of Crowley’s heartbreaking bravery at the airbase kept intruding. Aziraphale was fluent in literally thousands of languages, human and otherwise, and if he didn’t quite grasp all the nuances of the demon’s song, an angel knew _grace_ when he heard it, and understood well enough how perilously vulnerable it rendered the demon. It may have been as close as Crowley would ever come to the words he had never been able—or _allowed_ —to say.

It was all rather humbling, to say the least.

Perhaps it was time for Aziraphale to try to use _Crowley’s_ preferred language, and offer up some small act of service.

So with a few _snaps_ he repaired the door, and reinforced the tattered wards against both angelic and demonic intrusions. Another quick miracle removed the moisture that had soaked the floors and furniture. Mindful of the discomfort that even unblessed water could inflict upon a demon, Aziraphale gathered up handfuls of towels and spent hours carefully going over the entirety of the flat in the human way as well. The koi pond took special attention; it seemed undamaged (except for the _disgusting_ clog of dissolved demon in the filter system, and the angel was resolutely NOT thinking about that); but Aziraphale remembered the care that Crowley had lavished on his lovely carp all those years ago in Kyushu, and he wanted to make sure that the elaborate fixture would once again be a showpiece of beauty and elegance.

The sun was well up before the angel was completely satisfied that the flat was once again safe for a demon to inhabit. Crowley seemed still to be asleep, and Aziraphale thought it would be rude to invade his privacy by poking about any further. Besides, he was feeling a bit peckish, and very much doubted that there was anything fit to eat in the stylish kitchen. He’d go out and fetch some pastries, that’s would he would do; and perhaps the needful for a pot of tea. It was unlikely that the demon would want to eat, but he would certainly appreciate coffee, and Aziraphale was far too unnerved by the gleaming chrome coffee-preparation-apparatus that dominated the kitchen counterspace to try to prepare it himself.

He was more than rewarded for his excursion outside the building by the sight of a familiar white sports car parked illegally on the kerb.

It was all the angel could to keep from rushing back at once to wake up Crowley with the happy news. But by dint of not one but two pots of tea, and a heroic bout of pastry-nibbling, he managed to restrain himself until the demon emerged, still a bit bleary-eyed but once again pristine and fashionably dressed.

Crowley barely paused to gulp his (miraculously still-hot) double espresso before dashing down to give his darling a thorough examination. He wanted to take her out for a test-drive immediately, of course, but conscientiously offered to drop the angel by the site of his shop first, to see what (if anything) could be salvaged from the disaster.

Whereupon Aziraphale experienced his second delightful shock of the morning.3

At any rate, the pair had split up, each to become reacquainted with that which they believed had been lost. They did agree to meet up later at one of their habitual spots at St. James’s, for the purpose of comparing notes, planning countermeasures to any (potential) revenge from (presumably) outraged (probably) former supervisors, and perhaps going out for a spot of lunch.

As the morning slipped into the afternoon, the angel definitely bumped that last one up on his list of priorities.

Ah, there he was at last, the wily old shrike. Aziraphale smiled fondly as he saw Crowley approach, with that nervous jerky gait so peculiarly his own. The midday sunshine picked out the golden threads in his fiery hair, and gave his pristine white skinny jeans and jacket a little extra dazzle. _Flash demon_ , he thought, not for the first (or last) time.

“Hiya, angel.” Crowley hopped up on the wall (of course), and perched there improbably, one long leg drawn up beneath him. 

“Good morning again, my dear. How is your automobile?”

“Brilliant. The kid upgraded all the latest modcons, you know, SatNav, SiriusXM, the lot.” The demon grinned wickedly. “100-plus kph, and still corners London streets like a boss.”

The angel nodded as if any of those words conveyed some sort of intelligible meaning. “But no seatbelts yet?”

“Course not. I have standards.” Crowley scoffed. He looked away for a moment. “You … unh. Cleaned up the flat. You didn’t need to do that.”

“My dear! It was a privilege.” Aziraphale said honestly. “I am honored that you trusted me to take care of it. But you’ll probably want to look over the wards. I’m sure you have specific needs and,” he coughed self-deprecatingly, “of course, I could hardly ward against _myself_.”

“Ehhh. S’fine.” The tip of the demon’s ears turned bright red. “You’re always welcome, you know that.” He shifted a bit atop the wall. “And your place? The shop’s all right then?”

“Oh, absolutely tip-top! I shall have to do a complete inventory, of course, but everything looks to have been perfectly restored. The boy even made a few … additions.”

The demon raised an eyebrow, accompanied by inarticulate enquiring noises. 

“A complete set of all one-hundred-eighty-six _Choose Your Own Adventure_ paperbacks; _and_ in the original slipcases.” Aziraphale was proud of keeping an absolutely neutral expression. 

Crowley cackled. “A little on the nose, that, innit?”

“Indeed. Although I should like to believe that the available options within the constraints of the Almighty’s Ineffable Plan are a rather less _limited_. Not to mention displaying more literary, er, sophistication.”

“Buck up, angel, it could be the start of a whole new genre for you.” Crowley laughed again at the angel’s wince. “Speaking of which, is that going to be our new reality going forward? We all live inside the kid’s head-canon now?”

“I shouldn’t think so. That is, young Adam has a powerful will, and a _remarkable_ imagination, but … well, there’s only one of him, and billions of other humans in the world, all of whom have their own ideas about how things are, and should be.” Aziraphale shook his head, a bit sadly. “I’m afraid that means that those Riders—you know, War, Famine, the other one … oh! Pestilence—will very likely be back soon enough.”

“’M just surprised that the humans haven’t imagined up a whole football team of them by now, to be honest. Only thing I want to know is whether they’re going to keep on stanning you, or will they hold a grudge about the whole ‘ _I don’t play favourites_ ’ thing?”

“Well…” the angel sighed. “They are who, or _what_ , they are, you know. Very uncomplicated entities, on the whole. And I …” he fidgeted with his hands nervously. “I am still who _I_ am. Both … _all_ of me.”

“Hey. Hey, angel, it’s okay.” The demon reached over and captured those wringing hands. “It don’t matter to _me_ , what Name you’re using, what you’re doing, what you look like. You know that, yeah?” One of his hands eased between the fingers of Aziraphale’s left hand, almost (but not quite) too hot for comfort. “Just … don’t hide things, all right? I can help. I … _want_ to.”

Aziraphale stared at their intertwined fingers. _Oh_. _Holding hands_. _This is a thing that we do now._

Crowley followed his gaze. “Umm. This okay?”

The angel swallowed, then gave him a brilliant smile. “Yes. Very much. Yes.” A little archly, “I’ll try to stick to this form as much as possible. I could tell that you didn’t like me being taller than you.”

The demon grinned. “Nah. Just worried me a bit, the whole _sucking-my-face-off_ thing you had going on.”

“Oh, you … dreadful fiend! It isn’t like that at _all_ , and you very well know it.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “You’re perfectly welcome to suck my face any time you like,” he said with an exaggerated leer. “I mean, if you _want_ to.”

The angel blushed, then laughed, all of which he knew perfectly well had been the demon’s intent. “But it isn’t just humanity that shapes reality, you know,” he said more seriously. “There’s Heaven, _and_ Hell. They may not have much imagination—”

“ _That’s_ putting it kindly.”

“—but both angels and demons are if anything over-equipped with _faith_. Or,” Aziraphale amended, as the demon opened his mouth to object, “with unshakeable certainty at the least. As to how all this,” and he waved his free hand to indicate the entirety of Creation, “ought to go.”

“Mmmph.” Crowley shifted his perch again, and rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re not wrong. For my money, the next one, the _really_ big one, will be all of us against all of them.”

“You really think so?”

The demon shrugged. “Not soon, at any rate. Right now, they’re too busy pretending none of that whole debacle yesterday ever happened.”

Aziraphale hummed. “I do believe that _I_ will be safe from retribution. For a while at least. No,” he responded to Crowley’s skeptical _hrgf’lm_ , “no, I’m not relying on any sort of _mercy_ or _good will_. But if I were to be recalled or … punished … _someone_ would have to take over my duties. And I can’t see any other angel in Heaven willing to accept the assignment, can you?”

“No, but I wouldn’t mind seeing that prat Gabriel getting stuck with the job,” smirked Crowley.

“Well, I _would_!” snapped the angel. “I don’t think the humans have done anything to deserve _that_! But you, my dear,” and he turned to the demon, placing his right hand over their clasped fingers. “Will _you_ be safe? Is there …” he trailed off in confusion, as Crowley started laughing.

“Angel, Upstairs they all think that I’m snogging the literal _Angel of Death_!”

“But you’re not, though,” Aziraphale objected weakly.

“Don’t matter.” The demon kept chuckling. “There’s not a one of them, not Beelzebub, not _Satan_ , who isn’t torn between being terrified of pissing you off, and eagerly anticipating that you’ll do worse to me than they could even dream of!”

“Oh,” responded the angel, embarrassed. He was silent for a long moment, then ventured, “You know, you’re perfectly welcome to any time you like.” Bravely, he continued, “I mean … i-if you _want_ to.”

Crowley fell off the wall.

“Dearest!” Aziraphale exclaimed, hurriedly hauling the demon upright from a tangled heap in the bushes. “Are you all right?”

“ _Ngk_.” Crowley shook himself back into some sort of order.4 His face and neck (and the hint of chest that could be seen beneath neckline of his pale grey Henley) were all an incandescent scarlet. “Yeah, okay. I guess I asked for that one.”

Briefly ( _very_ briefly) the angel was tempted to take the out that was offered. Then he remembered several shelves of vintage paperbacks now unexpectedly residing in his shop, and figured he could jolly well choose _whatever_ adventure he liked. “I was absolutely serious, my dear one. But only if _you_ wish it, of course.”

The demon mumbled something.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said,” Crowley enunciated very clearly, “ _Fuck YES_ _I wish it_ , and could we _please_ not talk about this anymore right now?”

“Very well, we’ll postpone that for later,” Aziraphale said, swinging their joined hands with a happy little bounce. “Lunch, then?”

As two man-shaped entities slowly ambled through the park, a table at the Ritz miraculously became free. Really, thought the angel, if this was going to be the pattern for the rest of their lives, he would certainly not complain. 

A shadow passed over the sun, and a low rumble rolled across the sky. The wind picked up, causing all the leaves of the trees to rustle nervously.

“Oh, _bother_ ,” he muttered. “Crowley, what with, er, re-adjusting the planet and all … I may have forgot to _mention_ …. well, you see … I am afraid that …”

“S going to rain,” the demon said, matter-of-factly.

“Yes. Rather a lot more often,” Aziraphale admitted. “I wouldn’t be surprised if England becomes famous for it. It will be quite lovely for _me_ , and very good for, well, plants and animals and so forth, but … an _uncomfortable_ climate for a demon. I shouldn’t blame you if you, um, considered relocating.” He tried to sound positive. “Quite a lot of the African continent should becoming much more habitable now. And you’ve always liked those little Pacific islands…”

“Angel,” Crowley stopped and looked at him. “Are _you_ staying in London?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said without thinking. Then, more slowly, “We-e-ll. I hadn’t really considered it. But I do feel … at _home_ here. In Britain, at least. I could see, possibly, moving someplace a little less _busy_. You know, like the Cotswolds. Or perhaps the South Downs. But …” Oh, he was such a rubbish angel. Always so _selfish_. He forced a smile. “I have lived all over the world, you know, throughout the centuries. It wouldn’t do to become too … stuck in my ways. I expect it would be quite exciting, to try someplace completely different.”

“Don’t be daft. You’d hate it,” the demon said dismissively.

“There’s no call to be rude. I should do very well. As long as you …” The angel stopped abruptly. He was being so very _presumptive_. His face felt hot. “That is, I …”

Crowley put his left index finger across the angel’s lips and shook his head. “ _Tch._ You’re being ridiculous. You know how this works. I _wile_. You _thwart_. We’ve been doing this literally since Time began. I am _not_ going to inconvenience myself by waiting around for you to show up to thwart me from half a world away.” He smiled softly. “You want to go to Africa, we’ll go to Africa. You want to settle in the South Downs, we’ll buy a bloody cottage. Anywhere you want. Anything you like.”

The angel blushed even brighter. Tears filled his eyes. “ _Darling_. You are entirely too _go—_ ” He was interrupted by another crack of thunder. Rain began falling in earnest. “Oh!” Aziraphale hurriedly manifested a large black umbrella, and tried to hold it over the demon’s head.

Crowley pushed it away and started walking again. “S’fine.”

“But, my dear, it will _hurt_ you!”

“Nah. Stings a little, that’s all.” Where the rain kissed the demon’s face, it left a scattering of tiny red marks. Like freckles. Like stars. “Funny thing. They always said … we always believed … the whole _point_ of the thing, rebelling, rising, the War, all that … was to get back to Heaven. Take over.” He squeezed the angel’s hand. “Didn’t know … _no idea_ that … Was _here_ , all along. This world. Just waiting.” Crowley pulled off his sunglasses and wiped a soggy sleeve uselessly across his eyes before settling them back more firmly. “M sorry. That was st-tupid-d-d. _Soppy_.”

“Don’t. Don’t _ever_ say that.” _How long_? Aziraphale wondered distantly. _How could an angel simply not_ know _so many parts of himself had been left so empty, so broken, until only now, when he could feel them all become healed and whole_? “I am the one who was stupid. I have always been so afraid of losing Heaven. Being judged _unworthy_ of Heaven. When I could never… How could I? When, as you say, it’s _here_.” He let go of his demon’s hand, just for a moment, to spin around, sweeping the umbrella in a full circle about him.5 “All of Heaven that is worth having, right here. With _us_. On _our side_.” He handed the umbrella over apologetically to one of the passersby that he had splashed, and seized Crowley’s fingers again.

And now Crowley was laughing at him again, laughing openly and easily, and it was lovely, so perfect and _right_. “Well then, angel. Cheers to ‘our side’, I suppose.”

“Oh, dearest,” Aziraphale laughed right back. “To the _world_.”

THE END…

… or possibly not _._

It’s _your_ choice. Always and forever.

Notes: 

1\. It should be noted that the music of Queen is one of the universal constants across all alternative realities, along with wine, crepes, ducks, and emotional idiocy.  Back

2\. Aziraphale was neither stupid nor oblivious, but an eternity of always being told that he was both _too much_ but never _enough_ had left its scars. Back

3\. The erstwhile Antichrist’s re-writing of history had been of necessity a bit haphazard, but he had made sure to recreate not only the demon’s beloved Lotus Elan, but also the angel’s bookshop, complete in every detail, from threadbare carpet to pristine first editions. He had also repaired the damage to Jasmine Cottage (and added a few extra rooms with a view towards an eventual family); and—admirably loyal even to the friends he had never technically met—provided a mystified but overjoyed Brujo de León with a selection of the latest gaming consoles.  Back

4\. Impressively, he never lost his grip on the angel’s hand. Not for one second. Back

5\. Aziraphale had seen someone do just that once in a film (one of the few films he had ever watched in a theatre, actually). It had seemed like a very grand and exuberant gesture. Unfortunately, it did not transfer well to a crowded London pavement.  Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five months after I said to myself, “Hey, what if…” this puppy is DONE. I never would have imagined that it would end up almost twice as long as every other fic I’ve written put together. (Writers of novel-length epic fics, writers who update like clockwork, you know who you are, I am in AWE of your eldritch powers.)
> 
> Everyone who has stuck with this, who left recs and comments and kudos, you have no idea how grateful I am. You have kept me going through one of the worst years I’ve experienced. And the wider Good Omens fandom: you are kind and brilliant and funny and sexy and beautiful, and every single one of you shines like a star.


End file.
